


Rebirth

by DJClawson



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: "Born Again" AU, Ambiguous Karen/Frank, Catholicism, Consensual Infidelity, Depression, F/M, Fisk is a complicated man, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kinkmeme, Multi, Post Season 2, Prompt Fill, So is Matt Murdock, Vanessa rolls with just about everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJClawson/pseuds/DJClawson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate version of the "Born Again" storyline from the comics, adapted into the TV show. Wilson Fisk emerges from prison hellbent on his revenge, only to find Matt Murdock in such dire straits that there's nothing in his life left to destroy. Dismayed at the fate of his former rival, Fisk's plan changes course dramatically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Filling the prompt "Fisk Pities Matt:"  
> "Fisk gets out of prison, all ready to Born Again the shit out of Matt Murdock, only to find he's jobless, friendless, and homeless already. Matt's life has completely fallen apart, he's in a deep depression, possibly suicidal, and Fisk can't believe the tough attorney who faced off with him both on the streets and in prison is the same person as this guy. So instead of further trying to ruin him, he helps him out."
> 
> Thanks to Zelofheda for her tireless efforts as a beta to make my work readable.

In prison, Wilson Fisk had nothing but time. The moment he stepped beyond its walls, that changed. He was assaulted – somewhat literally – by reporters, sycophants and crusading journalists alike, who nearly came into his personal space before being pushed back by a combination of his former jailors and the private security that awaited him between the fence and the limo. Ten feet never took so long. It could have been a peaceful, reflective moment, as he breathed in fresh air and walked in proper leather shoes that no longer precisely fit his somewhat more muscled and svelte form. His old suit smelled of mildew and he resented wearing it, resolved to have it burned as soon as he arrived at his new apartment (the old one having been seized along with his assets). But outside the gates, he felt the backs of the heavily-armed guards with their thick, bruising bulletproof vests as they shielded him from onlookers wielding cell phones and the occasional old-fashioned microphone as weapons. He said not a single word, but held his head high, so the people of New York wouldn’t see a defeated man, but a triumphant one, if at least behind a veil of slight humility. He knew his weaknesses now. He knew his strengths. He knew more of himself and others, and he was determined to make sure the time he’d spent inside in retrospection and planning wouldn’t be wasted.

His new apartment was of his choosing, but still foreign in that he’d purchased it without seeing it, though he did have some say in the supplemental designs. He owned two floors of the high-rise, both installed with extra security – bulletproof glass, reinforced doors, and soundproofing in the walls. Only his bedroom and bathroom lacked cameras. The insides were sleek and elegant but also simple and somewhat barren. His personal items had been hidden away as soon as he’d gotten wind of the arrest. Most of them were still in Italy, including all of his artwork.

There would be arrangements – extensive ones – made before this became his home – before this became their home, when it was safe for Vanessa to return. His new assistant – Hammond – felt it wise to sort out every possible detail of his business before her return, so she could be completely separate from it. When every protective legal barrier was in place, she would be back. For now, Skype would have to be woefully sufficient.

It was the heart of winter and the sun was low in the sky. He was lonelier than he had been in prison, where people were only feet away at any time, but he basked in the solitude, staring out at the Hudson. Then he made himself dinner and got to work.

Of the many details to be attended to, legal and otherwise, there was one that itched in his brain. He knew it was mildly unhealthy, unworthy of him to associate himself with someone so beneath him, but Matthew Michael Murdock had – probably unintentionally – made himself too crucial to Vanessa’s return to be ignored for long. Fisk knew that his appeal would probably be overturned if he spent his first day of freedom strangling an unemployed member of the New York bar association, so he kept that instinct in check, and went over the files of his targets calmly once more.

Franklin Percy Nelson – the other target – was no longer the do-gooder/ambulance chaser Wesley had plucked for his lack of reputation. He was now partner track in a prestigious firm with a muddled history of its own, representing both the Rand Corporation and several neighborhood vigilantes –but not, noticeably, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He’d been quick to get any charges dropped against one P.I. named Jessica Jones, he was present at the bail hearing for a bar owner accused of throwing a car named Luke Cage, but otherwise he stayed in his office, working long hours on contracts for arbitration. He went home alone, or with a female colleague, and he frequented a bar next to his office, but otherwise he had no social life outside of occasionally visiting his parents in Staten Island or meeting for drinks with his former employee, Karen Page. Fisk wasn’t oblivious to her connection to Union Allied and his own case, but she’d turned away from her connections to the legal profession and was now a journalist. He knew how to deal with journalists.

Murdock was a bit trickier. A rather muddy picture of his past and present emerged – blinded at nine, orphaned at ten, off the grid for two years, then back at the orphanage until eighteen. Scholarships to Brooklyn College as a Pre-Law student, Summa Cum Laude at Columbia University. He had been a promising young lawyer, having overcome enough adversity for a lifetime before he was thirty while retaining a fierce determination and a loyalty to his home territory that Fisk could admire. But lately his behavior had become ... erratic. He was unprofessional in his handling of the Frank Castle case, which proved the undoing of not only his law firm but his entire career. He made no attempt to reopen the firm without his former partner, with whom he seemed to have no contact. He’d already seemed a bit unhinged when he confronted Fisk in prison – why else would he have been stupid enough to do so – but soon after Castle’s reemergence in Hell’s Kitchen he became a virtual shut-in, rarely seen on the streets in daylight except to attend church once a week, looking increasingly unkempt and jumpy, according to the patrolman on Fisk’s payroll. Three months before the appeal trial even started, his name was removed from the call buttons outside his apartment complex and a new tenant took his place. But Murdock wasn’t one to leave the city entirely – there was no record of him _ever_ leaving Manhattan – so Fisk told those serving as his eyes on the outside to look harder.

It was around this time that appearances by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen dropped off considerably, and eventually puttered out. It was hard to establish a clear timeline with the abundance of copycats and genuine vigilantes tracking similar crimes, but Fisk felt he’d gathered enough sources to have a basic idea.

The connection between the two sides of the same man was confounding, but once you accepted the basic notion that a blind man could accomplish tremendous feats of physical strength and agility that he might have reason to hide in his everyday life, the pieces of the puzzle fit nicely into place. Fisk hadn’t been gentle that day in the meeting room, and Murdock had barely fought back, but Fisk had felt muscle beneath that silk suit. The other noticeable thing was the complete lack of fear – Murdock might have been rattled but he wasn’t _afraid_ of being choked or slammed headfirst into a metal table, and he was already sporting one wound when he entered. A boxer’s son, indeed.

“Bring in Murdock,” Fisk said. “If he’s ... reluctant to renew our association, give him the appropriate materials.” He put his hand on a manila envelope that contained a photograph of Franklin Nelson and Karen Page drinking together at a bar, with a braille description stapled to it.

Hammond disappeared, taking two of the bodyguards with him. When he returned, it was night, and there was shuffling in the doorway, but he came into the dining room alone. “Mr. Murdock agreed to come but his condition is not, um, conducive to a business meeting.” Since that was no kind of explanation, after an awkward beat he added, “We found him in a homeless shelter. He’s obviously been there for some time and he looks it ... and smells it.”

It didn’t make any sense. Yes, he was probably laying low, but his finances were in order. He had a small savings account leftover from a trust, and sizable new account in his name in a foreign account. “Give him full use of the facilities and provide him with a change of clothes and whatever else he needs.” Fisk didn’t have anything that would fit Matthew, but he had a staff who spent most of their time there and were allowed to keep fresh clothing around, as he expected them to be immaculate.

Murdock did finally make his appearance twenty minutes later, haphazardly dressed in a fresh white dress shirt from one of the security guards and carrying the folder Fisk had provided as ‘incentive.’ He was sans glasses, cane, and all of his usual poise. Even though he was wearing his own pair of pants, only the belt was holding them up. He must have lost a massive amount of weight, and recently. It was hard to tell the shape of his face beneath the sizable and completely unkempt beard. The only way to truly tell him apart from any long-time vagrant was the way he reached out to find the table, then the chair without turning his head in the proper direction, and after he sat down, how downward and unfocused his eyes appeared. Fisk had never seen them properly, but if Murdock did have any control over them, he wasn’t using it. He slumped in the chair, the folder between his hands, and said nothing.

“I know that when we last met our positions were ... very different,” Fisk said, even though he did have an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. Both meetings shared the fact that he had gone into them with increasing curiosity. “I’m sure you can appreciate the irony in that.”

Murdock shrugged. It was hard to tell if he were being intentionally disrespectful or if he were too tired to answer. He certainly looked that way.

“Do you know why I requested your presence?”

“You want your revenge,” Murdock said, with a hint of his former self in his scratchy voice. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Murdock slammed the folder on the table. “You leave Foggy and Karen alone. Take me instead. I won’t – “ He was interrupted when his own throat betrayed him, and he doubled over in a hacking fit, gripping the sleek end of the marble table desperately to hold himself up. Fisk signaled to one of the guards flanking Murdock, who only pushed him away before regaining his composure.

There were flecks of blood visible against the white linen when he sat back up.

Fisk looked over his shoulder and Hammond was there. “Get Dr. Goucher.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Murdock said with more insistence than he’d shown before, but now Fisk knew why his throat sounded so raw. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

“I’ll decide what we’re here for,” Fisk said as he stood up. Murdock jumped to his feet too, but a little too hastily, because it took the wind out of him and he crumpled against the table, and the same guard he’d pushed away had to keep him from hitting the floor.

Instead of toying with Matthew Murdock, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Fisk spent the next hour re-sanitizing his dining room with Windex, since both guards were busy taking care of their guest, who was struggling on the bathroom floor to both escape their grasp and catch his own breath. He gave up the fight long before Dr. Goucher arrived, who was very quick in his assessment.

“I need a set of chest X-rays and a sputum culture. I could open the office, but it should be done in a hospital or ambulatory care center, in case he needs supplemental oxygen. But from listening to his chest, it’s probably pneumonia. Treatment depends on whether it’s bacterial or viral.”

Fisk knew about hospitals, and their lack of privacy. Despite what must have been dozens of injuries during his tenure as Daredevil – some of which Fisk was present for – Murdock’s hospital records had been clean since the accident twenty years before. Therefore it wasn’t a surprise when his guest, who was wrapped in a blanket huddled in the corner of the bathroom, said, “No hospitals.”

“You’re sick, not injured.”

“The noise,” Murdock said. His eyes were wide open, pupils pointed so far up they were almost rolled back into his head. “The smells.”

“Open the office,” Fisk said, and his personal physician had not gotten that kind of job by contradicting him.

Murdock was carried out – he was able to walk, but only with help – and Fisk stayed behind. It seemed ... inappropriate to follow Murdock around and impose on his medical care while he was clearly so disabled. He turned instead to other matters, of which there was much work awaiting him, but found himself utterly distracted. He gave up after twenty minutes and flooded the floor with music, enjoying his abundant view of the New York skyline. Nothing short of being there, behind highly-polished glass, could do it justice.

The doctor and patient returned at dawn. Murdock was running a fever of 103 and somewhat delirious. They would have to wait for the results of the blood tests, but it was probably a bacterial infection in his lungs, which could be medicated quickly, but recovery would be slow. His immune system was probably weakened by various healing injuries, the fact that he was considerably underweight, and displaying signs of exposure to the unusually frigid winter.

“If his fever goes above 104, or he can’t catch his breath, he needs to go to the hospital,” Dr. Goucher said, waving the appropriate admission paperwork in Fisk’s face. “Otherwise, bedrest, fluids, and a fever reliever every six hours. When the pharmacy opens they’ll deliver the antibiotics. He might show signs of confusion, so nothing to upset him, all right?”

Fisk nodded before he thought about it. “Of course. He’s a guest.”

Dr. Goucher decided to take his word for it. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

***************************

For the next two days, Matthew Murdock was more or less in a half-conscious state of feverish nightmare. When he sweated through the sheets the guards bathed him twice, and the cold water must have been enough of a relief that he didn’t fight it the second time, and let one of them wash his hair while Fisk watched from the doorway. He was bathed clothed because he was not in a state to be left alone, and Fisk ordered more clothes for him, more suitable to his current figure.

His sole possessions were his cane and a backpack. It was emptied and scrubbed out while the personal items inside were sprayed with disinfectant. He had an ATM card, a state-issued non-driver ID, a Medicaid card with a sticker on the back alerting EMTs to his blindness, and some assorted paperwork in braille stuffed in a binder. The cell phone with a broken screen had no service. Wherever his Daredevil suit was, it wasn’t kept on his person, though a hastily-torn version of the old black mask was stuffed in a Ziplock back with his keys, a golden cross on a chain, and a more simple wooden rosary. There was also a laminated prayer card with a picture of St. Michael on it, but there was no way he could know what it looked like, so it must have been a gift from a rather insensitive do-gooder.

After inspecting them all himself, Fisk took Murdock’s possessions and put them on his bed stand. The younger man was still wheezing in his sleep but he sounded considerably better than when he arrived. The guest room – built for a specific type of guest, with locks on the outside and reinforced doors – was not particularly crowded with furniture, so the sound of ragged breathing bounced over the freshly-painted white walls.

Music. He wondered what kind of music Murdock liked. Probably something that was locked in his phone. Fisk made his own choices; he preferred Italian opera and he pumped it in both floors.

The next day, shortly after he sent food down (it was so much easier to cook for two than for one; it felt less indulgent) he was informed that Murdock was awake and about. “Send him up,” he said.

There was a private staircase between the two floors, and everything had a lockdown mode. Murdock emerged from the hallway with hesitation, carrying his cane in one hand and an empty plate in the other. His head was cocked to the side, his face hidden behind a trimmed beard and the glasses Fisk had his men purchase for him on a supply run. “Fisk?” It was not entirely clear if he knew the answer to his own question.

“You’ve been delirious for nearly three days,” Fisk explained without missing a beat at the sink. “The doctor said to expect some confusion. Now that you’re on antibiotics that should clear up quickly.”

Murdock stood there, mouth agape for a moment before he spoke again. His voice was still hoarse from coughing. “You made me an omelet.”

“I have a staff – “

“No. You made it.” He put the plate down on the nearest surface he could find with his cane, which he was actively using now, almost as an accusation.

“I can assure you it wasn’t poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know.” Murdock removed the glasses. “These aren’t mine.”

“You didn’t have any on you,” Fisk said, setting aside the dish towel. “Keep them.”

Murdock held them out for another moment before putting them back on his face. “Thank you.”

“Do you remember why you’re here?”

His guest played with the handle of his cane. The original orders had been to take it off his person before letting him near Fisk, but those had been abandoned with everything else. “You had pictures.”

“Yes.”

“You’re stalking Foggy and Karen.”

“That’s a very unrefined term,” Fisk replied. “Surely we’re both above that.”

Again, Murdock looked a little lost. “Did I agree to anything?” As if, maybe, he intended to honor his words?

“You had a great desire to protect your friends,” Fisk explained. “But no. We did not have a comprehensive discussion.”

“We’re not friends anymore,” he said, this time with a cough, but at least it was dry and unproductive. The cane was probably the only reason he was on his feet this long.

Fisk sighed. “You should rest. Dr. Goucher said you’re going to be weak for a long time, and you can’t leave yourself open to any new infections you might susceptible to you in your ... condition.”

Murdock nodded. “Thanks.” He still sounded very unsure of everything, as if he found himself in some strange dream space. “For the eggs.” He turned around, tapping his cane against the floor and the walls with uncertainty, and left Fisk alone.

***************************

Dr. Goucher came the next day and was not overly pleased with Murdock’s progress. “He’s not getting enough nutrients. He needs more than carbohydrates.” It seemed his patient was unwilling to drink much of the disgustingly chemical nutritional drinks. “Tell him if he wants to recover, he needs complex carbohydrates, vitamins, and proteins. Try to convince him to eat solid food. And don’t let him go outside without covering his mouth – it’s too cold and this could roll into a bronchitis.”

Fisk wondered how exactly he was going to convince the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen of all this, but he didn’t express those concerns. “Thank you, doctor.”

He sent plates of food down but they came back up only picked at. The guard assigned to watch him said the antibiotics were making him too nauseous. Their guest was a very stubborn patient.

Sick of eating alone – or with his accountant – and counting down the days until Vanessa’s return, Fisk looked down at his professionally-cooked, exquisitely prepared dinner and said, “Tell him to dress for dinner and send him up.”

Murdock emerged, wearing a clean dress shirt and slacks belonging to someone else, and looking a bit dumbfounded, but far more capable of navigating the space around him. He folded up his cane and set it on the table next to him. Behind his glasses, his expression was hard to read, but he was probably about as puzzled as Fisk often found himself when he was in the room.

“Dr. Goucher said you need to eat,” Fisk said, and put his napkin on his lap.

“Do you always cook for yourself?”

“Being seen in public is a bit of a ... security risk right now.”

“You _are_ a convicted criminal.” Murdock’s voice was deeper because he couldn’t breathe through his noise and scratchy from a raw throat, but just a tiny bit of his unfortunate humor was back.

“I assume that Columbia taught you something of the appeals process.”

Murdock frowned but offered no comment. Fisk guiltily watched him eat a little harder than he should have – the way his guest first located each utensil with his fingertips, touching all of the forks and spoons, then used both utensils in his hand to find the food on his plate and carefully move it around, occasionally slipping in a finger to touch something despite the presentation of delicacy that was supposed to come with formal dining.

“It’s rude to stare,” Murdock said without lifting his head, after he was about halfway through his dinner. But he was smiling when he said it. “Do you want to know how I know you’re doing that, too?”

“I would never – “

“I’m not an idiot,” he said. “I also – I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the senses I have to rely on are a little bit muted right now, so I’m sure it’s a more exaggerated show for you to enjoy.”

“I do not consider your ... disadvantage any kind of show,” Fisk replied. “That’s not the kind of man I am.”

“I have no idea what kind of man you are,” Murdock admitted. “I thought you wanted to kill me.”

“Do you really think I would have invited you into my home? For that purpose?”

Murdock just looked dour. “You tried before.”

“ _You_ tried before,” he said. “If Nobu hadn’t slowed you down considerably ... I’d rather not speculate on what might have happened.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Yes, a considerable one.”

“No,” Murdock said, driving his fork so hard into the plate he almost broke it. “I mean, it was a mistake. I wanted to kill you. I thought – I believed it was the only way to stop you. That it was something I had to do to save my city. But I was wrong. Only G-d can make that decision.” He aggressively scratched one hand against the other, his limbs bundled up by an inner fire Fisk hadn’t seen in them since their meeting in prison. “I’m sorry.”

Fisk sat back. He really didn’t know what to do with that, especially because it sounded so legitimate, so pained. “You’re apologizing to me? Shouldn’t you be apologizing to G-d?”

“I already did,” Murdock said, all hunched over now, his breathing a little ragged from the stress. Fisk had no doubt that it was true, or that everything Murdock had said was true. “I still feel sorry. It doesn’t stop.”

Fisk had never never so grateful that he wasn’t a proper Catholic anymore. He didn’t need that albatross around his neck. “I ... accept your apology. For what it’s worth.”

“What do you want from me?” Murdock demanded. “Why am I here?”

“Do you have anywhere else to go?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I find it hard to believe that a man of your intelligence and education would voluntarily find himself on the streets,” Fisk said. “Considering you have twelve million dollars in a Swiss bank account courtesy of one Elektra Nach – “

Murdock slammed his palm on the table. “Don’t say her name! Don’t you dare – “ His shout dissolved into coughing, but he otherwise kept it together, his whole body tense with fury. “You have no right.” But the last demand came out hoarse and somewhat high.

He hadn’t known what Miss Nachios meant to Murdock before, but Fisk certainly did now. “But apparently you felt Vanessa was fair game.”

Murdock’s jaw tightened as he tried to hide how shaky he actually was. “I never would have hurt her. I only wanted information from you about Castle, to stop him from killing anyone else.”

“So you were bluffing.”

“It would have hurt you, not her.” He had to stop to hide another cough.

“She’s my fiancé! Do you think it would mean nothing to her to never see me again?” He resisted to urge to grab Murdock and throttle him. It would be so easy ... “How do you think your ... _Elektra_ ... would feel if she could never see you again?”

Murdock sunk even lower, defeated without even a real hit. “She’s already dead.”

It was not a fight anymore. The air went out of the room, along with all other noise beyond their own breathing – Fisk’s angry gasps, and Murdock’s strained wheezes.

Fisk straightened himself out. He was clearly distressing Murdock at a time when his opponent was already too weak to fight back, even if he wanted to. “Enough. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re lying.”

“A matter of opinion,” he said. He didn’t know her; how could he feel sorry? But he wasn’t a completely cruel man. “Please sit down and finish eating, and I promise we will not continue this discussion until a date we both agree upon.”

Matt glared at him, but he did sit, and they ate the rest of their meal in silence.

***************************

As Murdock was recovering, Fisk was counting down the days until Vanessa’s arrival. Everything in the apartment had to be completely perfect, and everything in order as much as possible. While he didn’t expect her to play the part of the oblivious significant other, he did need to put up every possible barrier to make sure she could not be connected to any of his businesses and the law would have to leave her alone. There was so much he couldn’t tell her over an unsecured internet connection or satellite phone that he was getting increasingly nervous that she would somehow be disappointed by what she found when she arrived. He was worried about everything about his appearance (even though he had lost fat and gained muscle in prison) to the details of each piece of furniture in the apartment.

It was during one of these inspections that he found Murdock on the balcony of the lower floor, his head tilted somewhat up. He was not allowed to leave, but he had free access to most of the rooms on that floor, provided there was a guard with him. Dr. Goucher encouraged him to try to get back on his feet for short periods.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to exposure yourself to the cold,” Fisk said, but stopped the guard from dragging him back in. Murdock was easier to convince with words.

Murdock turned back to the doorway. “It’s so quiet ... there’s nothing ...” he wheezed. “You can’t hear the city.”

Surely Murdock spent enough time on rooftops? Maybe just not ones this high up. Once you were higher than twenty or so floors, the sounds of ambulance sirens and car horns and faded out, replaced by the heavy winds.

“You’ve never been this high up before?”

“When I was a kid ... the World Trade Center,” Murdock replied. “You could feel the building sway. But they didn’t let you outside.” He must have been referring to when he was sighted; it seemed like a poor choice of excursion for a blind child.

“You’ve never been hiking in the mountains?”

Murdock shook his head. “I’ve never been out of the city.”

No wonder he was so attached, so willing to die for the city, even for just a small neighborhood like Hell’s Kitchen. They were both city boys, born and raised, but at least Fisk had gotten to _leave_. His travels abroad had helped shaped him into the well-rounded, sophisticated man he was today.

It was hard to grow where there was so little light.

Fisk offered his hand, and when Murdock gave no response, he said, “I’m holding out my hand.”

“Why?”

“Some people are ... afraid of heights.” He put his hand down when he heard how stupid he sounded. “I suppose that doesn’t concern you.”

Murdock smiled. “No.” But he did come inside.

***************************

Fisk was lost in preparing the apartment again when Hammond approached him. “Mr. Murdock is requesting permission to leave.”

There was no formal arrangement, but the lower floor had locks throughout and the guest suite had no access to the hallway or elevator. They had never agreed on any formal arrangement – Fisk had never intended for Murdock to live in his apartment, per se. It was just a result of circumstance. “Send him up.”

Murdock was wearing the jacket he’d come in (now dry cleaned) over his new clothes and carrying his folded cane. “Am I a prisoner here?”

“Perhaps I should clarify,” Fisk said. “No, you are not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you wish. But if you leave without my permission, or alert anyone to the reason you came here ... there will be consequences. Not for you, obviously.” Murdock was not particularly concerned with his own health or well-being. “For your friends.”

“They’re not friends with me anymore,” Murdock repeated sadly.

“Former acquaintances. Whom you presumably still care about.”

His guest bit his lip. “I’m going to church. And then I’ll be back.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Sunday,” Murdock said, with the _Duh_ heavily implied.

The Devil had been an angel. One of G-d’s most beloved. That much, Fisk did remember from Sunday school. “Go then.”

Matthew Murdock was such a fascinating man.


	2. Mass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dangit! I should have ended the last chapter on Fisk, started the new chapter on Matthew. Oh well.

Vanessa’s return put Fisk’s world into a tizzy. She was mobbed at the airport despite security – the mobster’s wife-to-be, returning from the land of the mafia to live in style in her newly-freed husband’s royal penthouse in Midtown West. That was what Fisk imagined the papers said – he didn’t actually read them – but Vanessa handled it with all the grace and charm with which she handled everything, as if the reporters were just a mild inconvenience of curious, confused onlookers. Fortunately some child-star-turned-talk-show-jockey had arrived at the Met Gala wearing a dress made to look like a superhero costume, so that got the paparazzi moving out quickly, and Fisk could welcome her into the apartment in peace while his guards appropriately scattered.

“It’s a little drab,” she said of the apartment after they’d had their more tender reunion.

“I thought it would be better to wait for an expert consultant to do it up properly,” he said. In truth, all of his expensive art had been seized after the arrest, then sold at a police auction, and he’d only been able to recover two small pieces. He’d carefully selected some new items, but he wanted her to judge them before the purchase. And there was the not inconsiderate matter of getting her gallery back in order. It hadn’t been too hard to wrestle it out of the hands of the new manager who handled things while she was abroad (Fisk was good at being intimidating with very few words), but setting it right would require the same effort she had used to put together collections in the first place. It was no easy task, but she hadn’t exactly sat around the chateau in Italy playing solitaire. She had a particular obsession with volcanos at the moment, with all of their fiery anger and unpredictability. She’d toured and loved Pompeii, with its grotesque reminders of the sweeping nature of death when Mother Nature had her way, and made Fisk promise to go back with her when he was available. Maybe for their honeymoon. She had a little sculpture, a copy of one of the trapped people caramelized in ash, that she put on the table between bookcases on the library. An unappreciative soul would have found it morbid; Fisk thought it celebrated the intensely fleeting nature of life, and told her so. He’d forgotten what it was like to have someone who understood him around, and if he’d been a religious man of any form, he would have offered a prayer of thanks.

For the first day they were totally lost in each other, and it was everything Fisk had hoped it would be. The world outside was fleeting and unnecessary. They didn’t think about anything else all that much, but eventually notions and concerns intruded, and Vanessa asked him why he was preparing a third place for breakfast.

“This is going to sound a bit ... strange,” he said, because it was a bit strange. For security reasons, he hadn’t mentioned anything of Matthew Murdock – or the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – when speaking to her over hackable communication, including the prison visit. In his explanation, he played down the threat to Vanessa’s legal status and tried to explain to himself and her how his plans to punish Murdock for his sins against them had gone a bit ... awry.

In the end – and it was a long story, one he had to drag out of himself in embarrassment – Vanessa was mostly amused. “It’s not like you to keep a pet.”

“He’s not ...” He looked away. He wasn’t sure what Murdock was. A stranger. An enemy. A hostage. A threat? No, if he was any real threat, he wouldn’t still be in the apartment, even with all the locks and steel and glass doors separating him from them. He’d said he would never hurt Vanessa with all the conviction of an Atticus Finch-type righteous crusader.

“Wilson, please,” Vanessa said, putting her lovely fingers over his stubby ones. “It was very kind, what you did for him. If you were half the monster he and the reporters thought you were, you wouldn’t have done it. But they’ve always been wrong about you.”

They didn’t invite him to join them, of course. They were still famished for time with each other, and Fisk was still slightly paranoid that Murdock might be contagious even with a week of antibiotics in his system. He hadn’t told Murdock about Vanessa’s arrival; their communication was minimal anyway, and Murdock _was_ his sworn enemy, so no reason to give him a possible opening on anything, right?

This being Vanessa’s home now as much as Fisk’s, and him wanting her desperately to feel that way, he didn’t discourage her when she insisted on going down to say hello to their ‘guest.’ Dr. Goucher had been in earlier to check on his patient, and while he was generally improving, Murdock was also hacking up quite a bit of all the bacteria in his lungs, resulting in him having little or no voice. He was sitting up in bed when they arrived, listening to something on his phone via headphones with the braille booklet in his lap. As the glass door opened he scrambled to stand and put his glasses on. “Hello,” he said, or more like mouthed, because his voice was more of a suggestion of a whisper than an actual sound.

“Matthew,” Vanessa said. She offered her hand, and he must have had some awareness it was there, because how else did he fight multiple enemies at once without situational awareness?

But he didn’t take it. “Maybe we shouldn’t.” It sounded like it was very, very painful to say.

“It is nice to see you again,” Vanessa said, clearly meaning it despite this being the precise man who had prevented Fisk from joining her in the helicopter that night. Maybe she was better at compartmentalizing than Fisk was. “Even if the circumstances are less than ideal.”

He smiled nervously, as she was the only one who exuded the confidence of knowing what to make of this strange situation. “How was Italy?”

“A bit lonely, but otherwise fantastic,” she said. “You should go sometime.”

“Never been on an airplane,” he admitted, and was about to say something else, but it disappeared into a hacking fit, and he excused himself into his bathroom, and they retreated upstairs.

“Now I know why you’re so insistent on feeding him,” she said. Murdock did look rather frail; Fisk supposed he’d just gotten used to it. “We have to do something for that poor boy.”

Fisk found that he couldn’t contradict her sentiment.

***************************

Matt Murdock wasn’t sure when everything had fallen away from him; he was only sure when things started to come back. It was like coming up for air, and he’d always hated being underwater. If Stick hadn’t made him, he never would have learned to swim. Underneath the surface, everything was dulled, with most of his senses blocked, and the world was painfully quiet.

Despite what one would have thought, he didn’t prefer it to when it was too intense. He was distinctly aware of the last time it was: when he had held Elektra’s body in his arms and heard her heartbeat putter out, and her body heat begin to fade, and for a while he felt _everything_ because he didn’t have the strength to rein it in. If Stick hadn’t been there, he might have never gone home, and instead wandered the rooftops aimlessly in his suit until he passed out. Maybe that was why Stick had stayed so long, all the way through the burial. It wasn’t like him, and Matt didn’t question it, but when Stick was in his apartment, and his heartbeat was steady (and it was always steady, even when he was fighting, or being tortured, or being stitched up after being tortured), Matt could pull it together, but that was a show, largely for Stick.

The rage didn’t last as long as he wanted it to, however painful it actually was and how much it itched under his skin. When it faded, nothing replaced it. He heard the world around him, but he didn’t process it, beyond the most rudimentary requirements for life. Having nothing else on his schedule, he forced himself out to beat up muggers and abusive spouses and drug dealers and even some low-level people who didn’t deserve it, but it didn’t bring him the uncomfortable level of satisfaction raw violence usually provided. He didn’t feel much guilt either. Rather, he felt less and less.

He talked to Karen after weeks of painful indecision because he remembered that he felt a lot around _her_ ; his face got hot and his heart raced sometimes and even if she was mad at him (which she was), that would be okay. Only it wasn’t okay – Karen was very mad, more than he knew quite how to deal with. She punched him in his good eye and he took it, and then she yelled at him for just standing there and taking it. She said things she would probably take back in time, if they saw each other every day because they were still working together, but they weren’t. He had passed some barrier into a weird, violent sub-dimension and she had moved on. He stood there and took it, which made her madder, and she asked for space, and he gave it to her.

Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe not that much. Maybe he should have tried harder to pursue her, but he forgot. She faded away. She was his last link, too – Stick was gone, Foggy made his intentions clear, and Claire wanted out. Matt didn’t talk to Father Lantom much; talking exhausted him and cleared up precisely nothing. He went to Mass once a week, but otherwise, all he wanted to do was sleep. Not eat, not pay bills, not deal with his mail, not deal with his life, nothing. Couldn’t the universe just give him that?

No, the universe had never been kind to Matt Murdock, and it wasn’t about to change now. It turned its back on him and he turned its back on it. He wandered. He lost his lease. He ignored people who tried to help, though Lantom was the only one he could name. He stopped answering his phone. It stopped working entirely, probably because he wasn’t paying for it, but he could still use the accessibility features to listen to music or get on to WiFi in the rare moments when he needed some extra awareness. Most of the time he listened to the world outside of him, increasingly far away, and the sounds would just wash over him without any real penetration of his awareness. He didn’t know where he was. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or awake, still alive or dead in an ally. His stomach would growl painfully but he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to feed it. He wanted to die, but he was too much of a coward to kill himself. Besides, it was a mortal sin.

He’d been sick for a long time probably when he was pulled out of the shelter and driven to Wilson Fisk’s. He didn’t remember when he didn’t have chills or trouble breathing. He could hear the phlegm resting in his chest, and tasted it when he coughed it up. He didn’t think too much about their confrontation, just wondered how it would end.

Two weeks later, he still wasn’t sure. Fisk didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to hurt him, either. He expected ... _something_ from Matt, but Matt was beginning to suspect that neither of them knew what it was. At first he didn’t care, just as he didn’t care about anything, but Fisk and the doctor and the guards insisted on things, like taking medicine and eating, and he woke up and his chest sounded dry instead of wet and he could breathe without coughing all the time and it was _nice._ He still wasn’t hungry, especially not for the Pedialite his doctor (Fisk’s doctor, he reminded himself) insisted he try to drink, but when food was put in front of him he ate it, and Fisk was, among other weird things, a hell of a chef. So he ended up in Fisk’s dining room/kitchenette at least every other day for one of the meals, even if he didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to make small talk with Fisk.

Making small talk with Vanessa was so eerie because she was really good at it. He knew she was at least partially evil, a willing and enabling partner to Fisk’s criminal empire (which made her at least an accessory to various crimes), but she _seemed_ genuine about everything she said. Even with his senses still not totally up to snuff, he still felt he would hear a lie, and she didn’t tell one.

On her third or fourth day back from Italy (he wasn’t sure) she knocked on his door and entered only after he admitted her, which was a first. Behind her came a guard carrying something very heavy and long.

“What are you reading?” she asked, and he wondered if Fisk had tried to identify the book while Matt was too sick to tell, because it would have taken some work.

“It’s, um, Ecclesiastes,” he said. “It’s short, so it’s not too heavy.”

“You grew up with it, I take it?”

“Actually, when I was a kid, I preferred the lives of saints,” he said. “I grew up in a Catholic orphanage and that’s what they give you first. After that, things seem wordy and boring. The bible’s stories are rarely in neat packages.”

She was nodding. “I certainly am familiar with the saints, but I admit, mostly from an artistic standpoint.” She said to the two men, who were mounting something on the (presumably) blank wall, “No, a bit higher, if you would. Yes, that’s right.” She turned back to Matt. “Some of the saints led lives that one might call, without meaning to be offensive, grotesque.”

“Saint Sebastian, pierced with arrows.” He managed a little smile. “I saw a picture of him in a book before I was blind. It was like reading a violent comic book, so of course I liked it.”

“It does lend itself to art. Some painters prefer to work in extremes, to draw the most emotion they can from their audiences. The images force emotion.” She broke off to supervise whatever was being put up. “I hope you don’t mind. I found this piece and it doesn’t fit with my gallery’s spring theme, so I thought it would work here.”

Art. They were putting up art. He wasn’t sure why she was asking him for permission. “Okay.”

When it was properly secured, the guards left, and she said, “You can touch it.”

“The oils on my hands – “

“They won’t do any damage,” Vanessa assured him. “Just try not to scratch it.”

Matt was very gentle, touching it only with a lot of hesitation, as if it would explode. He knew it wouldn’t – it was a panel of solid wood, only about two inches deep. “It’s pine,” he said. “Polished.”

“It’s a Bhutanese wood carving. The technique is called _par zo_.”

“They smoke a lot of weed in Bhutan.”

“Bhutan by way of the East Village,” she said with amused annoyance. “They said I would barely smell it. I suppose you’re different.”

“I live in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m used to the smell,” Matt said, running his fingers in the grooves. He really couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and Vanessa must have seen it on his face, because she took his hand to more carefully guide it along the surface. He flinched at first, but her touch was politely insistent, so he relented.

“It’s the eight auspicious symbols of Mahayana Buddhism, done vertically.” She went down each symbol with him. All of them were unfamiliar – the Wheel of Buddhist law, the parasol of kingship, the two fishes representing the sacred rivers, the right-turning conch shell representing the sound of the Buddha’s teachings – and were hard to puzzle out just from feel. He would have never managed on his own, but he did okay with her help. There was paint on them, and she told him about the bright colors, and what they meant. “This one is my favorite,” she said, making sure his fingers gently looped around and around some kind of Celtic-like knot. “It’s called the Endless Knot. There’s no beginning and no end. It’s a symbol geometric design, but it displays a profound concept of the interconnectedness of all beings.”

She withdrew her hand, but Matt continued to trace each line, finding layers but never an ending. “Do you believe in it?”

“Buddhism? I’m not so sure. That we as people cannot be totally separate from the lives of other people? I find that an easier concept to accept. It goes against our nature as individuals, particularly in Western culture, but that doesn’t make it less true. Even though we act in a solitary manner and feel distinct, all of our actions have results that affect the people around us, whether we can see it or not. Our destinies are always entwined.”

Matt wished he could get a better read on her. While he was so congested, his head felt like it was oversized and floaty, and he was still weak even though his caloric intake was improving. That and a constant dehydration headache dulled everything except the basics he couldn’t escape. “I like it. The art, I mean.”

“I thought you might. Wilson also prefers more of the post-modern paintings than traditional Eastern handicrafts.”

That made sense. “I bought some art. For my apartment. I wasn’t intending to, but I thought about it, after our meeting.”

“What did you buy?”

He shrugged. “I went to the flea market on 39th with my co-workers and they picked out something that was in my price range. It was a big canvas. Something with oils – big and colorful and lots of squares. They said it would cheer up the place.”

“Do you remember the colors?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think in colors that much anymore. I know I should, but it’s hard to maintain. If the color doesn’t have a particular meaning, I don’t really care.” He turned away from the carving and faced her. “Also, the man in the booth didn’t have quite your talent for description.”

Why was he talking to her like this? Strategically, revealing unnecessary details to one of his jailors was a bad idea, unless it would make her more sympathetic to him. And she already was pretty damn sympathetic, because it was clear she had bought this for _him_ , not _the room_ , even if she wouldn’t admit it. She’d gone out of her way to acquire art for a blind person her fiancé was blackmailing. He didn’t know what to make of that. What could he do, other than be honest? “Thank you. For showing it to me. The imagery was a little unfamiliar, but I like it.”

“The paints are acrylic, so you can touch it all you want,” she said. “I know you don’t go out much. Do you need anything? Music? More books?”

He should have asked for a laptop – he didn’t remember anything about where his old one had ended up – but that would have been expensive, though he doubted that much less expensive than the art on the wall. And he didn’t want to be indebted to Fisk. Braille books were heavy and expensive and they had to be acquired through specialty stores or the internet. “Fisk and I – we have different tastes in music.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Will you join us for dinner tonight?”

Matt knew he couldn’t say no. It would be rude, and Vanessa was being so nice to him. But it would also be uncomfortable. He hadn’t had a formal dinner with both Fisk and Vanessa; he wouldn’t know what to say. But she would probably fill that gap. “Yes.”

“Fantastic.” She kissed him on the cheek. In a friendly, European way. Sort of. “See you at seven.”

And then she left, because _what the fuck_.

***************************

If Matt had been a little uncomfortable with the current arrangement before, it was nothing compared to the nerves he had ascending the stairs that evening. _Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Jailor’s Fiance_? Was that a thing? He really needed his senses now, to tell if Vanessa was messing with him or genuinely attracted, and if Fisk knew, so he took a Tylenol and a decongestant, but it didn’t help much.

At least they didn’t have cocktails first. There was a wine glass awaiting him. He was still on antibiotics, but Fisk was too considerate to offer him something that would actually hurt him, and he knew better than to turn down the offer. “I really don’t know much about wine.”

“Everyone starts somewhere,” Vanessa said. “What do you know?”

“There’s whites and there’s reds,” Matt said. “And you’re not supposed to buy them if they come in a box.”

“Fine wine isn’t a very ... pedestrian drink,” Fisk said.

“Wilson grew up with cheap wines,” Vanessa said in a half-whisper, mostly to mock her fiancé. “The sickeningly sweet stuff.”

“I’ve developed my palate,” Fisk said, sounding amused, and Matt realized this was the first time Fisk sounded _genuinely_ amused, and not when he was gloating over someone injured. “Try it.”

Matt did. If he had to guess, it was a white wine, something dry but not unbearably so. He had trouble with the idea that you could drink something that made your mouth drier than before it had liquid in it. It didn’t make any sense. Mostly he tasted fermented grapes, and the oak from the barrel it had been in, and the cork, which hadn’t fallen apart in the wine but definitely left its oral imprint. It wasn’t like beer, which went down smoothly and was mostly water, or scotch, which burned his throat but forced its way into his system and did its job very quickly, the main job being reminding him of his dad. But it wasn’t bad. “It’s ... different.” If he had to drink it straight, it would probably drive his tongue nuts, but it went well with their food, which was fish and sautéed vegetables. Fisk was obsessive about fresh, high quality ingredients, and on that end, Matt certainly had no complaints. Maybe Fisk leaned a little heavily on garlic, but otherwise, he was an excellent cook. Attention to detail helped, and Fisk was very obsessed with details. Even though he’d given Matt the same sized glass, he’d poured very little, in accordance with Matt’s medical needs and probable desire to not be intoxicated, so Matt could avoid being impolite by not finishing it.

The conversation was strained and strange. Fisk was a man who had always put up a bold front in their previous encounters. Even when his voice sputtered and went in and out, it was more like a massive ship passing in and out of view, never offering a real opening, always portraying power and dominance. Vanessa was smoother and more confident, and on a far more even keel. She was used to impressing people with her words, and Fisk wasn’t, but around her, he changed. He wanted to impress her, and he showed what could conceivably be called a humble side, as if being in front of a pretty woman (Matt had some guesses in that department) drained his confidence, like he didn’t deserve her. In other words, Fisk acted human around her, except that he didn’t seem to get jealous when she engaged Matt, as if he really were a guest, and no threat to either of them.

All in all, Matt wanted to say that dinner was the definition of strange, but his threshold for strange had recently gotten a lot higher. Instead he reluctantly called it _nice_.

***************************

Mass was a wakeup to the presence of the world around him, outside the hermetically-sealed apartment of the Fisks.

He smelled Jessica Jones long before he heard her. Most people didn’t show up to church with whiskey actively on their breaths, and in such a high concentration. Nor did she make any show of sneaking up on him, or having any trouble finding him in the back row, where they kept the braille texts for him. Besides, she only had one set of clothes, so that made her all the more easier to recognize as she took a seat next to him. “Murdock.”

“Miss Jones,” he replied. They’d only met a few times – and when he was Daredevil, as best he recalled – but Hell’s Kitchen was a small place and she had a reputation. She wasn’t in hiding about much of anything, and she was a decent P.I. He wondered when she’d put two and two together.

“Nelson’s looking for you,” she said, lowering her voice only minimally for an active service. “Your phone isn’t working.”

“I know.”

“There’s someone tailing you.”

“Yeah.” Actually he didn’t know a damn thing about the guy, except that he was beefy and silent and worked for Fisk. “It’s not a problem.” Not one he wanted Jessica to fix, anyway.

“See, my research points to you living with Wilson Fisk. But that’s crazy, right? Because you were the guy who sent him to jail? Twice, technically, in the same day.”

“The second time was at night.”

“He has something on you?”

“Maybe I like his food.”

She wasn’t in the mood. Neither was he, really. “Look, you can make all the shitty decisions you want in your own life, but as checking up on you is actually my job, I have to ask if you’re okay.”

Ah. So Foggy had hired her. “I’m okay.” He added, “It’s complicated. If Foggy wants to know about my well-being all of the sudden, he can ask himself.”

“Jeez, Murdock. He’s your best friend. He hired an expensive, violently alcoholic PI to find you! Doesn’t that mean anything?”

That did give him pause. He played with the beads of his rosary. They were a soft wood, even before they’d been put into use. “He told me I don’t get to create danger to protect him from. He told me we were done. I took him seriously.”

“Christ.” And she cursed again when he shushed her. “Do you think Foggy Nelson is capable of being mad at anyone for more than like, a week? A day after he bails me out of jail again, he shows up at my place to make sure I get to court on time, and he brings muffins. _Which he baked_. He’s like a marshmallow with feelings. Even I can’t stay mad at him.”

“I’m not mad at him.”

“And he’s not mad at you. He’s worried.”

Jessica wasn’t lying, of course. Matt wished that she were; it would make things simpler. Foggy’s concerns had bad timing – they would have been more helpful three weeks ago, before Fisk found him – but Matt supposed he couldn’t knock him for something he didn’t know about. “If I contact him, will you not tell him about Fisk?”

“What the hell do you think a private investigator does?”

Matt put a hand up to silence her for Communion, which she impatiently sighed her way through. He didn’t take Communion when he hadn’t confessed, so they waited through the rest of the service. He didn’t know Jessica could be so patient, but he supposed she was billing hourly. “Tell him I’ll call. And that I’m not in any danger.”

“Is it a lie?”

“Jessica, we’re in church.”

“Is. It. A. Lie?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not a lie.” But he wasn’t sure if that it was true, either.

***************************

On the way back from church, Matt stopped at Fogwell’s, where he’d stashed some of his equipment in a gym locker. His suit was with Melvin, but he didn’t want the guard tailing him to know where it was, or that he was getting Melvin’s help, and he wasn’t well enough to use it, anyway. Congestion kept his balance off, not enough to bother him in everyday life but enough to prevent him from being as accurate as he needed to be when fighting. He collected his laptop and refreshing braille keyboard, the latter of which was one of his more prized possessions by how rare and expensive it had been at the time of purchase, the shaving kit he’d inherited from his father, and two more books before heading back to Fisk’s apartment. He wasn’t sure what he would tell Foggy, but it had to be something, and he had to assume that if he used Fisk’s WiFi, it would be monitored. Fisk was definitely the paranoid type.

“I need the WiFi password,” he told Fisk. He knew they were alone in the library, with two guards upstairs and one downstairs, and Vanessa off somewhere, probably doing something art gallery-related.

Fisk had no reservations about giving it to him. He didn’t ask any follow-up questions. “Would you like some tea?” It wasn’t a formal invitation; Fisk had merely made some for himself earlier, as he had a glass next to him. He did no “work” in the apartment that Matt could detect, except reading and writing that were impossible for Matt to observe.

Matt reached down and picked up the clay teapot on the coffee table. Something about it was strange. He sniffed, but he couldn’t decide what type of clay the pot was made out of. It was totally alien to him. But not all of the smells were. “This is from Gao.”

“I didn’t know you were aware of her preferences for antiques.”

“Her perfume is very strong,” he said, which was a slight lie. He could also detect the chemicals used in that factor he found her in, and the slight taste in the air of duck, the particular type that every Chinese restaurant below Canal Street purchased. “She gives you gifts.”

“We are not currently ... associates.”

Matt didn’t hear a lie, but Fisk had been pretty vague. “Good for you.”

“Don’t tell me you hold grudges against everyone.”

“She blinded her employees,” Matt said, not holding back his emotions on that. “She said it was for some greater purpose, but I think that was bullshit.”

Fisk replied in a measured, almost sympathetic tone, “I can see how you might take that to heart.”

“There’s no way she could have known, but ...” He wasn’t sure why he was telling Fisk this. “Anyone with a conscience would be horrified.”

Fisk didn’t respond, refusing to rise to Matt’s bait, but to be honest, Matt didn’t have a fight in him about this particular topic. Or any topic. He wanted to sleep and try to figure out what he was going to say to Foggy. Or he just wanted to crawl in bed and not think about it anymore.

“You should eat,” Fisk said as Matt turned to leave.

“You’re not my doctor,” Matt retorted, perhaps a little too harshly, and then descended the stairs.

Fisk didn’t follow him, but when he woke up, there was a tray with a plate of penne pasta outside his door.

_Damnit_.


	3. Principle

Fisk enjoyed being out with Vanessa. To be fair, he enjoyed almost anything he did with Vanessa, but he was not a man for public spectacle, however mild, so before her, he had been a bit of a hermit, poking out of his hole when necessary. When he did, he preferred to do it with class and refinement, to move in the circles he had earned by hard work and Vanessa inherently deserved. She was so naturally graceful and at ease that she would be misplaced anywhere else. She wasn’t a native, but she loved the city and it loved her back; whole sections of it were catering to their class and its needs. It was more than eating out at the best restaurants, enjoying the best of entertainment, seeing the best museums. He was never oblivious to the underbelly that supported it all, that produced the best (people who could give generous donations to keep the Met open, both the opera and the museum) and the worst (addicts buying from the rich dealers). He knew the world was a complex place. But with Vanessa at his side, everything was colorful, instead of just shades of grey.

He didn’t pretend he was going on the straight-and-narrow with her, and she didn’t pry into his business decisions. They had an understanding that was profound. They shared concerns without voicing them; they supported each other just with their presence. Vanessa wanted to bring new culture to the city; Fisk wanted to create a city worthy of it.

Eventually, though, when they were alone in their room, there was the problem of Murdock. He wasn’t around unless they wanted him to be, and they could toss him out of their lives at any moment, but he remained, either because he didn’t have the energy to go or they didn’t want to push him out. Fisk told himself it was better to have the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen contained, but he knew Murdock wasn’t capable of being much of a threat anytime soon.

Vanessa was more sympathetic; it was in her nature. “How did you feel when I hesitated that night at the restaurant? When we almost fell apart?”

She meant the night he’d smashed a Russian mobster’s head in for disturbing their meal, and she wasn’t shy about asking about it. “I felt rage. Nothing else.”

“And after that was gone? It never lasts. It takes too much energy to maintain.”

He remembered. He was temporarily invigorated by the killing, his bloodlust satiated, but it didn’t last. By the end of the evening he was deep in despair. He could have killed the rest of his “business” partners and it would do nothing to dispel the cloud over him.

“Bring yourself to that moment,” she said gently, “and imagine what it would have done to you over time, if there were no one to support you.”

“I don’t want to imagine a life without you. Prison was hard enough.”

“I know that.” She put a hand over his. Her fingers were sleek and gentle and made him feel like his were giant, cumbersome nubs. “But now you know what it might look like, when someone grieves over a lost love. It’s romantic.”

“I assure you, when he arrived here, there was nothing ... _romantic_ about his condition.”

Vanessa smiled in that knowing way of hers. “For a man to fall so far, he must have started very high up. I knew from the gallery – _we knew_ from the gallery – that he was a man of passion. Conviction. He was driven by it. But that level of emotion is delicate. It can break. It can be hard to repair.”

Fisk puzzled for this for a moment. “You think we should ... repair him?”

“He’s a person, not a vase,” she said, though without any true mocking in her tone. “He needs time to heal. He needs an environment to do it in.”

“And you think it should be us?” Fisk had to ask the obvious. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Does it bother you?” She asked, and he shook his head. “You have very similar qualities. Good qualities. You complement each other.”

“We also almost killed each other.”

“Then I am very fortunate,” Vanessa said with a seductive smile, “that that didn’t happen.”

***************************

Dinner was delivery because he couldn’t cook every night they didn’t go out, not with his schedule. It wasn’t in question that they would invite Murdock, who looked his usual tired, somewhat apprehensive self. He smiled shyly at Vanessa (or in her general direction), didn’t have to be prompted to taste the wine, and didn’t wait until they started eating to taste his own meal.

“I know this food,” he said. “Il Mulino. In the West Village.”

Fisk assumed it would have been far above Murdock’s price range, considering his working-class background and the fact that you had to bribe the host to get a reservation there. “I didn’t know it was one of your haunts.”

“I shared a dorm in undergrad with one of the waiters. Last year we bailed him out after he was busted for possession and got him community service. He paid us in food.”

“You have an expert palate,” Vanessa said.

“I didn’t know such an establishment employed criminals,” Fisk added.

Matt turned his nose up at the word ‘criminals.’ “He was two ounces above the legal maximum for weed possession. And trust me, if you’re a waiter, you can take whatever you want as long as you show up to work on time and get the orders right.”

Of course, Vanessa was curious. “Experience, Matthew?”

“No, just a good sense of smell. They’ll hire someone who smokes meth behind the building, but they won’t hire a blind guy. The people who gave me jobs when I was putting myself through school did it because they were good people.” He carefully speared another mushroom with his fork. “Or they pitied me. I wouldn’t have said yes, but work is work.”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Uh ... I was a barback, a janitor at a gym, and in college I worked in the cafeteria as a dishwasher. There are resources in New York to help people who are visually-impaired with the job search, but it’s hard to get past the interview stage. My first real job was an internship where they needed a disability hire.”

“I’m sure that wasn’t the reason.”

“I overheard them,” he said, but with a grin. “Me and the Latino kid from Yale helped them meet their quotas.” He added, perhaps to soothe Vanessa, “I don’t resent them for it. I got the job. I just didn’t like it. If I’d stayed there, I’d probably be in jail by now.” He very slowly pointed his face in Fisk’s direction.

He admitted to nothing. “Landman and Zack?”

“I was long gone before you employed them, if the court documents are correct,” Murdock said, with some delight at poking at his host. “I don’t blame you. They were good at what they did.”

“I believe our legal system rests on the idea that everyone deserves a good defense,” Fisk said.

“I agree.”

“Of course you do. You represented Frank Castle, even though that must have been a conflict of interest for you.”

Murdock made a face, though possibly just at the unpleasant memory of his legal career blowing up in his face. “The original charges involved him being extradited to Delaware, where he would have been eligible for the death penalty.”

“That was your sole reasoning? You didn’t think he was innocent even though that was his plea?” Fisk was toying with him a bit now. Turnabout was fair play.

But Murdock stood firm. “What I thought of his guilt was irrelevant to providing, as you said, him with a good defense. But yes, I was not willing to see him executed, no matter what his crimes.”

“No one can accuse you of being a man without the courage of his convictions,” Fisk offered. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I were to commit some violent crime –

“ _Hypothetically_ , sure.”

“And I was in a similar position to Castle’s. Conflict of interest aside, would you represent me?”

There was no hesitation in his answer. “To fight extradition, yes.”

“You don’t believe in the death penalty. For anyone.”

“I don’t think states have the right to decide who lives and who dies. So yes, I would serve as your legal counsel to the best of my abilities. Though, considering the current state of my firm, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Wesley was right about you,” Fisk said. “He thought you were too honest for your own good.”

“Who’s Wesley?”

Fisk stuttered; Vanessa paused in her eating but gracefully recovered.

Murdock was quick on the draw. “The Healy case.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t introduce himself. I know he came to court, and I think he was with you that night with Nobu, but we were never introduced. And he wasn’t in any of the court documents.”

“He is ... deceased,” Fisk said. “We thought you might ... know something about it, considering the violent nature of his death.”

“I don’t kill.”

“But you have exceptional hearing.”

Murdock shook his head. “No. I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t even know he was dead.” He sounded sincere when he said in a lowered tone. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He was a good man,” Vanessa said. “A kind man. It’s unfortunate that you never saw that side of him.”

“If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.” And it sounded like he would really do it, too.

Fisk knew he would be true to his word.

***************************

Matt texted Foggy to assure him he was fine (lie) and he got no response, but he couldn’t say he was overly surprised to find Foggy waiting for him outside church after Sunday Mass. He wasn’t in a suit, but his clothing was clean and new, not parts of an outfit Matt was familiar with. He had new product in his hair, the kind that had a scent that annoyed Matt, though he would never admit it. Foggy was still wearing his old, smelly sneakers (some things never changed) and he tapped on the sidewalk impatiently.

“Good to see you, too,” Matt said. Foggy’s body language was more familiar to him than anyone on earth’s, so he could read the mix of anger and concern. He could tell Foggy was fighting the desire to hug him and cry on his shoulder.

“You look like shit,” Foggy said, trying to hold himself together. “And I shouldn’t have had to hire a PI to find you.”

Matt shrugged. “But you did.”

“You scared the shit out of me,” Foggy said. “I tried your apartment but you had no forwarding address. Your phone wasn’t working. You weren’t responding to emails. I started calling hospitals. I called Claire even though she’s not even working as a nurse. I almost bought a police scanner.”

“You said we were done.”

“With our law firm. Not our friendship. Christ, I just needed some space!” His anger was wilting into sadness. “Where were you?”

Matt wished he had a less depressing answer. “I was in a bad place.”

“And now you’re not? Jessica says Fisk is holding you prisoner. He only lets you out once a week.”

“I _go out_ once a week,” Matt said. “It’s ... complicated.”

“Is he hurting you?” Foggy demanded. He was definitely choking up but he held it together when he was still on the attack. “And I don’t care if that muscle head following you cares. Is he hurting you?”

“No, Foggy. He is not.”

“Matt, I can’t hear your heartbeat.”

Matt sighed. “He found me when I was dying of pneumonia in a homeless shelter. Maybe he, I don’t know, felt bad for me, because he took me in and got me a doctor. And now he’s mostly making sure I eat and leaving me alone. I don’t expect you to understand it because I don’t understand it myself.”

“But there’s a reason you’re staying. He has something on you.”

“Take a lucky guess,” Matt replied, not eager to let Foggy know about the threat to his own life very much hanging over his head.

Foggy shook his head. “It sounds like he’s fattening you up for the kill or something.”

“Or something.” He couldn’t continue this conversation. He didn’t have answers. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah.” Foggy paused from his train of protective thought. “Yeah, you too.”

“Jessica said you’re doing well.”

“She did?”

“In so many words.” He touched Foggy on the shoulder. “I’ll keep in touch. I promise.”

“If you don’t, Jessica’s gonna knock down your door. Even if it belongs to Fisk.”

“Noted,” Matt said, and walked away before either of them could start crying.

***************************

Matt made a few stops on the way back to the apartment. His credit card still worked – the one connected to his account, not Elektra’s. He didn’t know if he could ever touch that money. He bought himself silk sheets because Fisk’s guest sheets were wearing on him and he didn’t want to be further in his debt. He also purchased earplugs and noise-cancelling headphones. Stick thought they were a needless extravagance that would make him weak, but there were just some things in the apartment above him that he didn’t want to hear.

Also, accidentally listening in on their every conversation seemed a bit rude.

Wondering when he started caring what Fisk thought was rude – it had to be about Vanessa – Matt returned in time for dinner. Sunday meant restaurants were crowded with families and tourists, so the Fisks (he supposed he could refer to them as that, as they were engaged) were staying in again. They mostly talked among themselves at dinner because Matt didn’t engage in the conversation. He was too distracted.

“Matthew?” Vanessa asked, sounding about as innocent as Vanessa Marianna could ever sound. “Is something wrong?”

Their body language had shifted without him noticing. They must have read his expression. He was a little angry, but not for the reasons they were expecting. He debated saying nothing, but it was hard to pass up an opportunity to taunt Fisk. “I take it you own the building.”

“Yes,” Fisk replied.

“So you know your neighbors.”

“Not personally. I prefer my privacy. But they were screened.”

Matt nodded casually and paused between bites of his arugula salad. “Two floors down, the hedge fund manager? His ‘wife’ is sixteen. He bought her through a mail-order dating service in Thailand. He hurts her, but she doesn’t speak enough English to be able to communicate with anyone.” He added, “He just hit her again. For crying that he hit her too hard.” He took another bite. “Is this the Hell’s Kitchen you wanted?”

Fisk came close to stammering but quieted his response, probably due to the fact that Vanessa was sitting across from him and he didn’t want to get angry in front of her. Eventually he said, “Do you expect me to do anything about it?”

“You said you wanted to make this city a better place,” Matt said. “Theoretically, we’re after the same thing. But that’s just theory, isn’t it?”

Fisk was _pissed_ at him, and really having trouble not showing it. In fact, Matt as pretty sure that the only reason Fisk hadn’t reached across the table and throttled him was because of Vanessa’s presence. “And what would you do?” Fisk spat at him. “Put on a Halloween costume and beat him up?”

“I am trained in the law,” Matt replied. “I would call the office of Children and Family Services first and report a trafficking victim. Call them a second time when they didn’t follow-up fast enough. But somehow I don’t think they would get past your building’s security. You’re a private person and this place is a fortress. He would use that to his advantage. But maybe it would work, with enough anonymous tips and enough pressure on advocacy agencies involved. Maybe he would go to jail and she would end up in a shelter and get help applying for a green card. I know people who would help her do it. Experts.”

“And if that failed ... if you didn’t reach the rosy end of that rainbow?”

Matt was prepared for this. “I don’t think it would be in my best interest to say what might happen next. But I’m not in shape to do much of anything, and you have cameras on me all the time. So it’s really up to you.”

“Me?”

Matt intentionally turned his head in Vanessa’s direction before facing Fisk again. “You control everything that happens in this building to some extent. You said yourself you screen everyone. And now you know someone’s dirty secret. You know that while you sit here, eating a special delivery from one of New York’s best restaurants, you’re two elevator stops away from someone getting raped.”

Fisk squirmed and Matt loved it. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

Fisk was no doubt getting a hell of a stare down from Vanessa. He acted differently when she was looking at him. Matt hadn’t meant to take so much pleasure from this dinner, not precisely, but he figured he might as well enjoy it while he could, because he really was in no shape to follow that guy to work and kick the shit out of him.

“I suppose I could ... call security,” Fisk said, in his own sort of agony over being forced into doing something so blatantly good, even if it amounted to nothing.

“You call security, the police, and I’ll call the sex trafficking hotline,” Matt said. “She won’t press charges. She doesn’t have the language skills to communicate anything and she’s scared. But if your security people see something and report it, and he gets arrested, the social worker will talk to her when she’s alone. It’s New York. There’s probably someone who works at an agency who speaks Thai.” He added, “It would take ten minutes of research. On my phone.”

Fisk got up and stormed out of the room, but it was partially because he didn’t like doing “distasteful” things in front of Vanessa.

“Why must you insist on testing him?” she asked Matt, amusement in her voice despite the subject matter. She was probably hardened to these things.

With a grin he answered, “Do you really have to ask?”

***************************

Not everything was sorted out so neatly, but the hedge fund manager was arrested, and was in jail long enough for two advocates from different agencies to convince his “wife” to go to a shelter. She probably wouldn’t stay there – she would go back to her “husband” or back to Thailand – but that was all they could do for the moment. The biggest worry was that if she did go back to the apartment, he would kill her and _say_ she went to Thailand. Matt told Fisk this was usually what happened, but only because he wanted him to know, not because they had a concrete plan of what to do. Matt wasn’t very strong, but he was still fairly sure he could handle Mr. Hedge Fund if he had to. He didn’t add that part.

In the meantime, he decided to put some effort into his health, which he’d been doing his best to ignore. The luxury building had a full gym downstairs which included an indoor track, and it wasn’t since his Columbia days that he had the luxury of access to one that was almost always empty. Walking outdoors was better than the stale air inside, but it also meant using his cane and avoiding people, or making sure people avoided him, because they always felt _so_ guilty when they ran into him and wanted to let him know about it, and at length. Walking wouldn’t get him into fighting shape but it was a start, and he didn’t want Fisk to see him back in training, so Fogwell’s was out, and instead he got to see how the other half lived. The whole place smelled of chlorine used for the pool, which he didn’t go near. The water muted his senses; the only reason he knew how to swim was because Stick had taught him by forcing his head under water until he learned to float while panicking. He still had no idea how they weren’t kicked out of that public pool. Those had been some negligent life guards.

He had his phone reactivated but couldn’t bring himself to make any calls. He didn’t know who would want to talk to him. He was exhausted just talking to Fisk or Vanessa, when he had to mentally stay on his toes all the time. He could feel himself being dragged down again by the emptiness inside. He wondered what Fisk would do if he fled. Drag him back? Make some more vague threats about people Matt couldn’t emotionally connect to? Or just leave him to die this time?

Even though it was a weekday, Matt went to church. He knew Lantom went to do hospital visits after Mass on Tuesdays, so the church was empty except for an old woman who sat in the back corner and had pamphlets for strangers. He passed by her and felt the warmth of the candles. Right. Candles. For the dead.

“Do you want to light one, dear?” the attendant – he forgot her name – said, and he reminded himself that this was a completely reasonable thing to ask a blind person if they needed help with, even if she didn’t say it in the least demeaning manner possible. The trays of little candles formed a slope and one could easily burn themselves even with the power of sight.

“Yes, please.” The words sounded alien to him, as if they came from someone else. It hadn’t been his intention. He lit a candle for his dad on Christmas, but that was that. He’d only been attracted to the warmth.

As she prepared the candle, he reached out and touched the state of St. Mary above the altar. It was unpainted stone, and he was the only one who was allowed to touch it, so he supposed they weren’t too worried about it being worn down. There was nothing particular about this statue – the standard Mary with a downcast face tilted slightly to the side, her lips and nose petite and feminine, and her eyes half-lidded. There was no deviation from the standard posture, though he wasn’t about to feel her up to find that out for himself. He touched the face and one of the outstretched arms, but that was it. The attendant probably thought he was experiencing some bout of religious ecstasy, but he was having trouble connecting cold stone to the supposed warmth of her love and forgiveness.

He lit the candle the attendant guided his hand to and crossed himself, but no prayer came to mind. He could barely even _think_ her name, let alone say it. He didn’t want to think of Elektra as being in Heaven or Hell; he didn’t even want to think of her as dead. She was just ... _gone_ , having exited his life with only slightly more finality than the first time she had run, leaving him an empty shell, only aware that he had previously felt whole and now that feeling was gone and he didn’t know if he would ever get it back.

Matt forced himself to sit in the hard pews, alone except for the attendant and the guard he knew was standing just outside the door. The stone walls, built in the old-world style of masonry, muffled the street noises and he could focus on the sound of the candle wicks burning away in the wax, and his own breathing bouncing against the walls, helping him form a picture of the cross at the altar. The imagery bounced around in his brain but did nothing else. It wasn’t meaningless but he couldn’t absorb the meaning, so it hung on him like a dead weight until he couldn’t take the guilt of not feeling anything anymore, and stepped outside.

Vanessa was waiting for him. He knew she’d been there for some time, wanting to impose herself but not too much. Entering the church would have been crossing a line. He wasn’t even that happy she was here now. His fist tightened around his cane and he said, “I didn’t know you were religious.”

She didn’t pretend to be. “I didn’t want to interrupt your prayers.”

But that was exactly why she was here, even if she hadn’t crossed that threshold, and it took all of his energy not to tell her to fuck off. She wasn’t part of this, this part of him that was so raw and cold. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Of course, she wasn’t put off in the slightest. Maybe she was just used to being around angry men. “Do you really think you’re the only one to have lost someone?” He was holding in his rage as she continued, “Do you think Wilson will be my first husband? Did I just materialize for the sake of existing in your shared worlds, and did not exist before?”

“I don’t – “ He wanted to say he didn’t care, but he stopped himself. He was being rude. She wasn’t toying with him now, because her heart said _truth truth_ and her tone was sad. “She wasn’t – “ But it was another false start for him. He supposed he wanted to say that that part of his life wasn’t for the Fisks to have, that no one could touch Elektra, especially now. No one had the right. But he couldn’t verbalize any of this without sounding stupid, and he didn’t want to sound stupid in front of Vanessa, or anyone.

“ _Matthew_ ,” she said, her voice gentle when she said his name, like one of the nuns gently scolding him to instruct him. “You’re not the only one not to know how to grieve. You feel like you’re the only one in the world, and so has everyone who has come before you and so will everyone who comes after you. We only learn this by experience.”

He could only manage a single sentence. “When does it stop?”

“Sometimes it’s harder to start,” Vanessa said.

She wasn’t being cryptic; Matt knew exactly what she meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: You really do have to bribe the host about $40 to get a reservation at Il Mulino. It's a famous restaurant and my dad was taken there a few times by drug companies (he was a doctor), and he couldn't get in on his own, so he asked them how they got in and they pointed to the host and said, "Give him $40 and he'll give you his private cell phone. Call two months in advance." And that's why I've eaten there twice. 
> 
> Check out [my tumblr!](http://devilofmidtownwest.tumblr.com/)


	4. Red

It was no surprise to Vanessa that Matt was bottling up his emotions instead of processing them. He was a man after all, one used to taking what he wanted by force and probably throwing fits when he couldn’t have it if he was anything like Wilson, and it was obvious that he was a _lot_ like Wilson, and that was why they both liked him, and wanted to shelter and support him, even if Wilson wouldn’t admit it. If either of them were a little older, Matthew could have been the age of a grown son, though they didn’t pursue him quite like that. He wasn’t a child; Wilson acted like one with far more frequency. His needs weren’t childish, and his behavior was better described as merely _stubborn_. But she liked that, too. It showed he had some life in him, compared to the pale ghost of a man who had greeted her, sans a proper voice, when she’d arrived.

Matthew Murdock would recover. She had no doubt of that. She looked at Wilson’s research. Jack Murdock had been not just any kind of boxer, but one known for his endurance and incredible recoveries, even though it didn’t translate to a winning record. She didn’t particularly like boxing, but she was accustomed to violence in her life, more so than the men around her wanted her to be. It was partially protective and partially because at the height of their anger, people were the most open and vulnerable, and neither of them wanted her to see that.

She knew a lot about Matthew. She knew that she’d overstepped a bit by going to his church, even if she hadn’t gone inside, but she felt he needed the push, and he’d too successfully avoided anyone else in his life who might be willing to do it. Even Wilson couldn’t tell her much about Matthew’s lost love, the elusive billionaire daughter of a Greek ambassador, though he was careful to warn her that Matthew did not want her name spoken, which Vanessa took to mean that he wasn’t ready to say her name and acknowledge the loss himself.

Or maybe she was wrong. Her degree was in art history, not psychology.

For the moment, she tried not to overthink it more than she already had. She was enjoying her mostly-metaphorical honeymoon with Wilson, her first time back in the city in over a year while he kept his head down, legally-speaking, which meant he had free time that he was more than willing to devote to her. She didn’t love New York with the same passion that he did (it took a native), but she could appreciate what it had to offer, or she could just be alone with Wilson, who was at his most precious when he was at his quietest, when he moved from one task to another with ease and dedication. He claimed to have abilities, but he did the things he loved like an artist, with the same mindfulness and quiet intensity of someone deeply involved in what could essentially be a simple task, like making breakfast, or picking out his clothing. He was adorably domestic. He didn’t put up the front to be too refined to be above some things and he didn’t delegate tasks to servants when he felt it was better to do it himself. This was the real him, not the supervillain the media him out to be, which implied that he was big and stupid and clumsy and a simpleton like Captain America should just come and beat him into compliance. (Granted, Matthew hadn’t done much better, but he’d _tried_ to be more subtle about it at first) Whatever shade of grey his activities took on a moral scale, he went at them with the core of his being, which was solid and earthly. And she loved him for it.

They didn’t talk about a wedding. Both of their legal statuses were still on questionable grounds, and it would be hard to have any level of privacy until his name died out a little bit more. Yes, they would marry, because they loved each other and they wanted to make that clear to society. When it would happen was irrelevant to both of them. After prison, Wilson was even more dedicated to taking his time with tasks that deserved full attention, and with stopping to smell the proverbial roses, and maybe also the real ones that he bought for her not because he wanted to lavish her with extravagant gifts to prove his worth but because she told him she liked plants with thorns. Beauty was more exciting with a sharp edge. Vanessa wouldn’t say that prison had changed him for the better – he had been scarred by it, and harbored deeper feelings of anger and remorse – but there were some good things to come out of it. Scars faded. Life lessons were more difficult to unlearn. Like the roses, life was temporary. It withered and died. It had to be grasped fully at every moment. There was no use wasting time.

He didn’t tell her about work except very vaguely and if she asked, and she didn’t ask. She wouldn’t have minded if he wanted her at his side about certain decisions, but they both agreed that plausible deniability was the best way to go. But if she’d _asked_ for a permission in his empire, to sit by his side, he undoubtedly would have given it to her, because that was the sort of man he was. He would give her anything. They were in the uncomfortable position that both thought they didn’t quite deserve the other.

It was good to have another person around the house other than servants and guards. He wasn’t around most of the time – he ate with them about once every other day, sometimes just for breakfast – and he didn’t say a lot until the social bubble around him was pierced (usually by Vanessa), so they could ignore or engage him at will. His depression made him very passive, but didn’t dilute any of his beliefs, which tended to be about as well thought-out as Wilson’s (i.e., not totally) but also fiercely developed in his core being because they meant something profound and were borne out in his actions. Neither of them wanted to see the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen go back to work, but while he was out of commission, there was time to admire him for his efforts. And he had brought up their downstairs neighbor not to mock Wilson, however much he clearly delighted in that, but because he cared. He knew the ins and outs of not only the legal but the social support systems available in New York. He had people at his fingertips. This couldn’t have been the first time he had dealt with something as ugly and difficult to face as this, and he did it head-on. Wilson had tried to shield her from ugly realities until she had told him to stop; Matthew had never bothered in the first place. Matthew could be polite, but he had no genteel exterior or desire to cultivate one. Despite having lived a double life, he did not hide behind many illusions as to who he was and what he was about.

They were having dinner – just her and Wilson – in the apartment when the leader of their security team rudely interrupted to say that the private investigator who trailed Matt almost everywhere was outside their building, clearly intoxicated and yelling incoherently.

“I’ll – handle this,” Wilson said.

As he stood, Vanessa interrupted him. “She’s here for Matthew. Let him handle it.” It might be good for him to see that people cared about him. And despite his conversations with her, he hadn’t really said anything against the Fisks or asked for help, maybe he knew he was being monitored.

Matthew, unsurprisingly, put up no fuss. “I’ll talk to her.” He tried calling on his phone, but she didn’t pick up, so he sighed and took the elevator down. Wilson insisted on watching from the CCTV for the front of the building. There was no audio, but Miss Jones yelled in his face and stumbled about and even offered him a drink from her mostly-empty bottle that somehow wasn’t smashed yet. Matt remained calm, planted firmly in place on the sidewalk, with his cane acting as a marker to highlight that. His back was to the camera, so his expression was impossible to read, but he demonstrated a lot of patience before finally calling Jones a cab. She yelled some more, but eventually got in it, to everyone’s relief.

Matthew returned and said, “She’s just very drunk.” And while that was probably true, his voice cracked like he was near crying, or had been, and his glasses obscured the truth of that. He took no more questions before disappearing downstairs.

Beside her, Wilson balled his fists. He wasn’t alone in the strong desire to hit something – or hurt someone – at this moment, but there was nothing they could do that wouldn’t easily come into question, and Matthew would rightfully be horrified and might abandon them entirely.

“I’ll say something to him,” she assured Wilson as she put a hand on his arm. He’d built up quite a bit of new muscle in prison. “Then we’ll decide what to do about her.”

Wilson gave her a look that said, _I trust you_ and kissed her, then stormed off. Sometimes he was too angry to speak.

***************************

It was late, so Vanessa waited until the morning. When Matthew didn’t show for breakfast – not that he was obligated to; there was a whole kitchen downstairs – she waited until he was most certainly awake and done with his own meal to knock on his door. “It’s me.”

“Come in,” Matthew said with resignation; he had to know what this was going to be about. He had a little desk in his room where he’d set up his computer. The laptop screen was scratched to the point of being almost unreadable, but there was no reason that that would bother him. He worked from the external keyboard with a braille attachment. He pulled off the heavy headphones and stood as she entered. “Would you, um, like some tea or something?” There was an electric kettle on the counter.

“No, but thank you.” There was good furniture, even in the room which was technically designed to also be a cell, because Wilson had taste.

Matthew got the jump on her. “She won’t be back. I emailed Foggy. After she hits bottom like that she sort of ...,” he said as he made a swooping gesture, “goes away.”

“She almost attacked you.”

He sat back and crossed his arms. “But she didn’t. And even if she had, it wouldn’t have been personal.” Everything about his tone and posture said, _I don’t want to talk about this_.

“If someone threatens you –“

“She wasn’t threatening me.”

She revised her statement. “If it _looks to us_ like someone is threatening you, it is very hard for us not take action.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Like you were taking care of yourself when Wilson found you?”

“That’s not – “ But he couldn’t finish the sentence. It took him a while. She gave him the time. His voice trembled with rage. “This is different. And it’s my business, not yours.”

“Matthew,” she said very carefully, “If you tell me, and settle it in my mind, I won’t give Wilson any specifics, and he’ll forgive her more easily.”

Matthew chewed on that for a while. He fidgeted a lot – with the fabric on the arm of the chair, and with the wires of his headphones. “My law partner and I had a falling out after the Castle case. It was my fault. I gave him a chance to cut me loose, and I thought he did. But now he’s changed his mind. He didn’t send Jones. She came because she’s concerned about him, even though I did talk to him, told him I was okay. He didn’t believe me. But, why would he?” As he talked his hands went still as his concentration increased. “Do you know how the love of your life got me to come? He sent pictures of Karen and Foggy. Just – ordinary pictures, them meeting at a bar, with a label I could read. He didn’t even have to say anything because I knew _exactly_ what he meant by it, and you must know. You know how he gets to people. How he tugs on their strings and gets them to dance. He doesn’t do it with you but ... you might be the only one.”

Nothing she could say would convince him that Wilson could be a good man, even a great man, when he didn’t feel threatened himself, so Vanessa didn’t try. She tried a different tack. “You gave yourself up because you didn’t want him to hurt your friends, even if, as you say, they weren’t your friends anymore.”

“Yes.”

“You would die for them.” She added, “That’s not a threat. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Then maybe you can understand how they might feel a similar way about you,” she said. “When people suffer they always feel alone in their suffering, even if the people closest to them are experiencing the exact same thing. You don’t know what lengths your friends would go to for you because you haven’t asked, but to send a dangerous woman against us, they must be very great.”

“I – I don’t want them to get involved. That’s the point of all this.”

“Clearly, they do not agree with you.”

Matt sighed. He was still housing a quiet fury, but wasn’t necessarily directed at her. And he was keeping it as much in check as he could. “What do you want me to do? Talk to Foggy? Tell him that he’s safe?”

“He’s your friend. He’s reaching out to you. Act according to your conscience, Matthew.”

This elicited a snort from him. “Usually when I act on my conscience, it doesn’t work out for people like Fisk.”

“Well, this time can be different.”

He didn’t really have a response. Not at first. “I’m not your project.”

“Please. I have many ways to amuse myself.” She walked over to him and ran her fingers along his face, where his hair and beard were still overgrown, if more neatly trimmed. He flinched, but he didn’t duck out of the way entirely. Fear was not his body’s only response. “Watching someone suffer is not something I enjoy. Especially when I have no cause.”

“And Fisk?”

“He’s a complicated person, but surely you’ve realized by now that he is not the ghoulish monster you imagined him to be,” she said. “I didn’t exactly have to talk him into taking care of you. He did that before I even arrived.”

Matthew was trying to glare at her – the glasses helped – but it was because he couldn’t contradict her. His jaw tightened as he searched for words. “Did you mean what you said – you won’t tell him about this conversation?”

“I’ll tell him _about_ it,” she said. “We love each other. We share our lives. But no, he does not need every detail. I will be good to my word, Matthew, so long as you are good to yours.” Despite the trauma his body had recently experienced, his hair was still soft and silky, and looked adorable when she ran her hands through it and messed it up. He didn’t encourage it but he didn’t exactly stop her. “Despite what you may believe, we do want to see you get better. And not just your physical self.” She leaned over and kissed him on the top of the head. “Take care of your whole self, Matthew. That’s all we ask.”

She left before he could respond.

***************************

Matt _hated_ his life right now.

He had so many mixed emotions left over from his conversation with Jones. During the actual encounter, he’d been too busy trying to calm her down and get her to leave to think much about them. She’d started laying into him about Foggy, and how worried Foggy was about him, and how he didn’t have the right to protect Foggy, not like he always did ... She rambled, but Foggy had told her enough, clearly, and she only needed to make a couple conclusions beyond that. He’d hurt Foggy badly by trying to save him once, and now he was pushing him away again, and Jones could give a _shit_ what the circumstances were surrounding that.

Matt had been wondering just how Jones had become so invested in her lawyer’s personal life when her drunken slurring got angrier and more off-the-wall. “What they do to you – you think you can take it – it’ll be all – hic – okay, you can stand it, then you can’t stand it and you want _to die_ – “

She clearly hadn’t been not talking about him anymore.

He didn’t know Jones very well. They’d only met a few times, all while he was Daredevil, but what he’d heard through the grapevine was that she had been through something truly awful and he should keep his mouth shut and never, ever ask her about her past. The person who told him this very sternly was Luke Cage, in a tone that left no doubt about the accuracy in his recommendation, so Matt didn’t engage. And then she’d been ranting incoherently and stumbling around, barely missing the bags of garbage on the street, and he hadn’t known what to do.

“He – they – he makes you like it, but you don’t. You can never like it, because he _makes you.”_ She’d paused and snarled. “Don’t fuckin’ look at me that way!”

“I have no way of looking at you at all,” he had said gently.

“Smartass,” she had replied. “Overeducated, insensitive prick. You care about the innocents of Hell’s Kitchen, huh? Willing to go bat for them? _Where the fuck were you?_ ”

“Jessica, I honestly do not know what you are talking about,” he had said, keeping his voice even, “but you need to leave.”

“Never there for the people who fucking need you,” Jones had said. “You really are the devil.”

She had eventually got in the cab, and he he’d waited until she was completely gone to go upstairs, where he he’d managed to get a single sentence in to calm Fisk – whose body had trembled like it was going to _explode_ – before descending to his room and leaving Vanessa to deal with _that_ mess.

The door to his room only locked from the outside, not the inside, so he went into his bathroom and locked it. The lock was flimsy, but he didn’t think anyone was coming for him. It was the one room he had where there were no cameras, where he had any semblance of privacy. He removed his shoes but not the rest of his clothing and curled up in the bathtub, holding his knees to his chest.

He was not going to cry. He’d barely cried over Elektra – frankly, he wasn’t sure if he’d cried over Elektra. And he’d been driven to tears by Foggy’s accusations before, but Foggy wasn’t in front of him, yelling at him. Foggy was reaching to him. Foggy was a friend. Jessica was obviously a deeply traumatized alcoholic, possibly with a screw or two loose, and she had no right to bring her issues to the table, vague as they were. Still, he could only feel a confused sympathy for her. Usually people were more subdued when revealing their inner pain. They were embarrassed. She wasn’t, because it must have been just that bad.

He didn’t want to tell her she was wrong about the Fisks, but he didn’t want to lie to her either, and he wasn’t sure what was right. He just knew he was alone, and if his friends were going to survive, it would have to stay that way, until Fisk decided to get rid of him or tried to corrupt him.

Maybe he didn’t cry outright, but it took a very long time for him to compose himself enough to leave the bathroom, and by then he was drained. He’d let himself get so weak. It was unacceptable, how he’d acted in the wake of Elektra’s death. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

Matt didn’t know what to say to Vanessa the next morning, either. Obviously she wouldn’t leave until she’d said her piece, no matter how outspoken he was about how he could give a shit about her opinion. She was generally pretty likable, but she could be off-putting, and he didn’t like her being so nakedly manipulative when he was at another low point and she _must have known it._

But damnit, she was right. He had to defuse the situation with Foggy. He _wanted_ to reach out to Foggy, but he hadn’t figured out a way to do that without keeping Foggy out of the Fisks’ orbit. Now Jones had gone and ruined that and he had to mend some sort of fence. He didn’t want to go to Foggy without good answers, but did Foggy really deserve them? When he’d tried to explain about Elektra, or the Hand, Foggy hadn’t been interested, despite the fact that Matt knew he was not wearing an undershirt and the wound where he had been _fucking shot with an arrow_ must have been pretty obvious. There was hurt all around, and now it was painful scar tissue, the kind that didn’t fade easily.

He texted Foggy. Foggy wanted to meet, and not at church. _Karen’s worried about you too_ , he said.

Great. Just great. _She shouldn’t get involved_.

_That’s bullshit Matt_.

He could have this argument or he could give up. Either way would bring about the same results. _Fine. Where?_

***************************

Fisk knew about it, of course. He was a real motherfucker like that (Matt was in a very bad mood). When Matt dressed himself to go, Fisk handed him a manila envelope. Matt reached in to check, but he knew from the weight and feel that there was a blown-up photograph inside. “What is it?”

“It’s for Mr. Nelson.”

So he wasn’t going to describe it. “Is it graphic or violent?”

“I assure you, it contains nothing of that nature,” Fisk said. No lie. So Matt didn’t even have that in his arsenal. “But it’s for his eyes, not yours.”

Matt clenched his jaw but swallowed his pride yet again. He already had a frustration headache. He didn’t need to make it worse. “Fine. But after this, you leave him alone. That’s our deal.”

“If you honor it,” Fisk said, “I will do the same.”

Again, no lie. Life was not cutting Matt Murdock any breaks today.

Foggy wanted to meet in the abandoned offices of Nelson and Murdock. They’d been unable to break their lease and it was against the landlord’s policy to sublet it, so it sat open and empty in some prime corporate real estate. Matt supposed Foggy was paying the bills. It wasn’t right, but Matt would make it up to him. Eventually.

Foggy and Karen were waiting for him. Karen bounced off the edge of the empty desk and hugged him. He didn’t invite it but he didn’t do anything to stop it.

“You look like shit, Matt.” Foggy didn’t mince words, but he wasn’t angry, either. He sounded tired.

Compared to how he was a month ago, Matt imagined he looked pretty good, but he didn’t really know. He let Karen disengage from him before he said anything about the other presence in the office, hidden behind the door to his old office. “Frank.”

Castle stepped out of the shadows. It was night and the only bulbs humming were the ones in the main room. “Red.”

“You guys know each other?” Foggy said. “As in, like you’re friends?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” Matt said, and turned his head in Frank’s direction. “I heard you were in Tampa.”

“I came back,” Frank said with customary succinctness. He was only packing a Glock in his back pants and a tiny sidearm in an ankle holster, so he wasn’t here to fight.

“How was it?” He only knew of it from the newspapers; Frank had been busy down there.

“Hot.”

“He calls you ‘Red.’” Foggy was incredulous. Even a little amused. Matt had a lot of follow-up questions about how Foggy was okay with Frank being there, but that could wait. “I can’t imagine where he would have gotten that.”

“I’m aware of the color of the suit,” Matt said. He wanted to smile, to joke around about it like old times, but he was exhausted. He had come into the building already drained. He wasn’t truly up for this. “I didn’t want to do this, but I suppose I have to.” He pulled the envelope out of his jacket and handed it to Foggy. “I don’t know what’s in it.” When Frank’s weight shifted precariously, Matt added, “It’s a photograph.”

“We’re not going to be threatened by Fisk and his minions,” Karen said with her usual indignation. “Whatever he has on you, he doesn’t have the right to do this. You can’t –

“Karen,” Foggy said. His body sank like a stone into the only chair after he pulled out the single picture, his posture one of someone who was truly horrified, and maybe also punched in the face. His heard was racing. “Be quiet for a minute, okay?”

“Foggy – “

“ _Shut up. Please_.” Foggy was really pleading with her. He was on the verge of tears as his fist balled around the heavy paper. “Just – don’t.”

“Fisk said it wasn’t anything graphic,” Matt said. “He wasn’t lying.”

“Then he thought – “ Foggy couldn’t manage words. “He thought – he has a different opinion about things. I mean, shit.” He put one hand on his forehead. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Fuck it all, he would kill Fisk. “What is it?”

“It’s um, a picture of my sister Candace,” Foggy choked out. “Asleep in her dorm room at UC-Berkeley. Taken from ... I think this is the hallway? Someone was in the hallway and he opened her door when she was asleep and took a picture of her? I mean, fuck, that means – _Fuck._ ” The agony in his voice wasn’t making Matt’s night any better. “What does he want?”

“He wants you to leave me alone.”

“Is this about Jessica? Because her behavior – Look, I didn’t ask her to do that. That was all her.”

“I know. Fisk knows.”

“She’s fired, okay? You can tell him that.” He tore up what was left of the envelope the photograph came in. “What has he done to you?”

“...Nothing,” Matt said with a shrug. “He’s done more or less nothing.”

“Are you here of your own free will?” Karen asked. Matt noticed how Frank protectively flanked her.

“Vanessa suggested it,” he said. “But she didn’t threaten.” Well, that wasn’t really true, but there wasn’t a better way to explain it.

“‘Vanessa?’”

“Yes, I live downstairs from her. I call her by her first name,” Matt replied. “All things considered, they’ve been very polite to me.”

“Are you apologizing for them?” Foggy asked. “Doesn’t Stockholm Syndrome take some time?”

“You asked me what he’s done, and I’ve told you.” Matt fiddled with his cane, which found a groove in the carpet. “I don’t know what he was thinking originally, when he found me. I wasn’t in ... good shape. And from there, I don’t know what his thinking is. But no, he hasn’t hurt me, and as long as I do what he says, he doesn’t intend to.”

“‘What he says,’” Karen repeated. “What does that mean?”

Matt shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

“What does he have on you? Other than the Daredevil stuff?”

“I don’t think he needs Daredevil,” Matt said. “No one would believe him anyway. He threatened you. Both of you. He gave me a photo, just like he did with Foggy, of the two of you at a bar. You didn’t know you were being photographed. Or, that’s what the description said.”

“That’s it?”

“He didn’t need anything else,” Matt said. “Fisk’s threats are abstract, but they’re real. He killed so many people already, just because they got in his way. He knows pressure points.”

“You’re not responsible for protecting us, Matt,” Karen said defiantly.

“And does Candace have a Frank Castle in her life, too?”

“She shouldn’t – “

“No, Karen. He’s right,” Foggy said. “I’d do anything to protect my sister. Fisk knows what he’s doing. He has me, and because me he has Matt. And no one’s too amenable to the punishing Fisk plan, right?” That last sentence was deliberately said to the room.

“Right,” Matt said, again in Frank’s direction. So Foggy was a little uneasy about Frank’s involvement, whatever it was. He was here for Karen, and maybe he felt some loyalty to them by adjacency. “That is not the answer to this problem.”

“If you want to be Fisk’s bitch, have it your way,” Frank said. Same for Foggy, it was implied. Karen didn’t weigh in and he didn’t mention her. Fisk hadn’t directly threatened her – yet – and that was probably the only reason he was alive.

“Didn’t you fight Fisk in prison?” Foggy asked.

“Not one-on-one. He’s too smart for that,” Frank admitted.

“He also got you out of prison,” Matt pointed out.

“I think he wanted to get me out of there after he tried to have me killed,” Frank said. “I was probably a liability. If he thinks I think I owe him something, he’s wrong. And unlike you, I’ll pull the trigger. So he’d better fucking stay clear of me.”

“I think it’s safe to say that he’s come to that conclusion,” Matt said. Maybe that was why he hadn’t threatened Karen.

“So what do we do? I mean, we could try to dig up something to blackmail him back with,” Karen suggested.

“Because that went so well for Ben Urich,” Foggy pointed out. He sounded like he had a stress headache now, too.

“Don’t bring Ben into this.”

“I can if I think Ben wouldn’t want us to make the same mistakes!” Foggy shouted, then shrunk back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him up, but we have to remind ourselves what we’re dealing with. And what could Fisk possibly have that we don’t already know? All the charges brought against him? The possibility that he killed his own father?”

“Fisk killed his own dad?” Frank asked.

“Manslaughter at best,” Matt said. “And he was a kid at the time, so anyone could argue self-defense. It might actually have _been_ in self-defense for all we know. His dad had some violent priors. The point is, we can’t use it. And we shouldn’t. Then we’re no better than him.” He pointed his face directly at Frank. “And whatever you’re thinking, don’t say it.”

“Does he know you’re here?” Foggy asked. “Wait, sorry, no duh. He gave you the photo to deliver.”

“But if he knows Frank was here – that might change something.” Karen was trying her best to be hopeful. “He’ll see he can’t just come in and mess with anyone.”

Matt was all the more curious about Karen’s arrangement with Frank Castle, but it wasn’t the time or place. “If you think it will help, I’ll tell him. But it doesn’t actually change the situation. He wanted to destroy me and Foggy for representing Hoffman. Now, I don’t know. He might be softening.”

Foggy almost laughed. “Softening? Really? This guy sent a ninja to kill you. And he almost did.”

“I think maybe Vanessa’s presence is doing something.”

“His girlfriend!” Karen slapped her hand on the desk. “Why didn’t I think of that. There’s got to be something on her that we can – “

“ _No._ ” Matt didn’t hesitate. “She’s off-limits. She’s not involved in this.”

“But my kid sister is fair game?” Foggy demanded.

“Maybe for him. But we don’t play by his rules. We have to be better than him or what are we even doing this for?” Matt demanded. Plus he didn’t want to imagine the rampage Fisk would go on if something happened to Vanessa. If she got so much as a scratch on her from some kind of scuffle he might burn down Hell’s Kitchen. “Look, she’s a calming influence. And I need that right now. So she’s out of the discussion.”

Karen made a noise like she wasn’t completely convinced, Frank didn’t reveal whatever his own thoughts were, but Foggy relented. “Yeah, okay. But what are we going to do? We can’t just sit on it. We can’t watch this happen to you.”

“Nothing bad is happening to me,” he said. “It’s weird, okay? It’s a really weird situation. But they’re not _hurting_ me. Fisk didn’t take me out when it would have been easy. I don’t know what he’s planning now, but I don’t see what else to do but wait for the next move. Unless anyone has any other suggestions that don’t involve someone innocent getting hurt.” He waited through the silence. “I didn’t think so.”

“Matt,” Karen said as he turned to leave, “don’t blow us off.”

“Blow you off? Last time we spoke, you punched me in the face and told me to get out of your life,” Matt said.

“Oh, come on,” Frank said. “I’ve punched you plenty of times.”

“You’re not Karen.”

“Matt has a point,” Foggy said. “Though I will say that if he hadn’t been super injured every time I wanted to punch him, I might have punched him a lot. But at least I didn’t shoot him.”

Matt didn’t expect Frank to apologize for that. “I see we’re working with a very low bar. For the record, I’m still sorry about lying to both of you, but I’m not going to keep apologizing.”

Karen sounded like she wanted to say something, but Foggy beat her to it. His tone was far more conciliatory. “We just want to help you. Everything else – we can deal with that later.”

“Okay.” Matt nodded. “If you want to see me without alerting Fisk, you find me at church. Other than that – just assume he reads my texts. Assume he reads everything.” He grimaced and turned back. “It was nice to see you again.”

He stepped out, and before he even shut the door they were arguing.

***************************

When Matt returned to the apartment, Fisk didn’t ask any questions, and Matt didn’t offer any answers. It felt like he didn’t have to. He felt like, in a strange way, he was _trusted_ here. Was he really going insane, or did Fisk just know he had Matt exactly where he wanted him, with no avenues of escape?

The confusion exhausted him. He didn’t speak to anyone for two days, making his own food in the downstairs apartment and surfing the internet. He spent a lot of time meditating; the soundproofed walls made it an ideal location. Even though the building had thirty floors, he could shift his focus to any resident on any level, listening to their conversations or movements before moving on to the next one, just to confirm he could maintain that level of targeted focus, over and over again. His senses were back to normal. He could at least feel good about that.

On Thursday, Fisk went on a business trip. He did not supply Matt with the details; Matt only noticed because Vanessa didn’t go with him. The old Matt would have been more interested, tried to pry secrets out of at least one of them about the trip and stored the information for future reference. Currently he didn’t have the energy for it. He consoled himself that Fisk was at least operating outside of New York City. Maybe that was an improvement.

Vanessa was in and out. She had work and a social life. She put on her expensive heels and came back smelling of champagne and her coat of expensive Cubans. The next night, she wore flats with her sleek, form-fitting dress and returned reeking of weed. It was hard to imagine that she didn’t have at the very least a second-hand buzz going, the way she stumbled slightly and fell into the armchair in the library, across from Matt. He liked it in there when no one else was around. Even if he couldn’t read the books, he could smell the age in them, and sometimes the leather-bound ones had titles on their spines he could feel. It reminded him of being in the stacks at Columbia, and a little bit of church.

Of course she would want to make conversation with him, but it would be rude of him to leave. “Did you know I have a tattoo, Matthew?”

“No. It’s not something I can tell.”

“The skin doesn’t feel different?”

“Yes, but I would have to be paying attention. Everyone’s skin feels a bit different, anyway. And they might just have a rash.” He didn’t add that he could usually smell the ink, and that if he was in a situation to be touching someone enough to find a hidden tattoo, he wouldn’t bring it up unless they did.

“Well, it’s a terrible tattoo,” Vanessa said in an exaggerated fashion. “I thought it was the act of a rebellious artist, getting a tiny, ugly flower to spite my parents. I didn’t even design it myself.” She added, “It’s on my ankle. Nowhere scandalous.”

“I’ll trust you on this one.”

“Does it bother you?” she asked. “The things you cannot see.”

“Of course it bothers me.” What kind of question was that?

“I’ve seen you fight – on video, only. On the internet. You have your own ways of doing things, even if you won’t tell us what they are. And I imagine you miss things that are ordinary to us. But there must be little things, things I wouldn’t even think of, that get to you most.”

Matt took a depth breath. The skunky smell would cling to the armchair for a day or two. Someone would probably disinfect it before Fisk came home. Vanessa’s skin was cold from being outside but her inner body was warm; she’d had something to drink on the way out of wherever she was. Not wine. A mixed drink. “I don’t know what I look like.” He knew Vanessa wanted something juicy, and then she might go away. “As an adult. When I think of myself, I’m still nine. I know some things – I don’t have my dad’s forehead or his nose, and even on good days I have a little bit of a stubble. Sometimes people let me know what they think of me, but that doesn’t give me a real idea.”

“Do you want me to describe you?”

With some humor he replied, “Absolutely not.”

Vanessa giggled. “Then I won’t torture you. But people have had good things to say about my ability to describe a work of art.”

That he was attractive to Vanessa wasn’t exactly news to him. “You’re drunk. And probably a little high.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You might say something you regret.”

“I won’t.”

“It might be something I regret hearing,” he said with a sigh. He rose to leave, but she caught him with her foot against his leg. “Go to sleep, Mrs. Fisk.”

“I’m not Mrs. Fisk _yet_ ,” she said. “Not that it matters to either of us.”

“It matters to me.”

“I meant me and Wilson. Do you want to know what he thinks of you?”

“No.” It was a lie, but it was a good lie, for the right reasons.

“We think you stay so focused because you deny yourself everything,” she said. “It’s not much of a life, is it?”

He didn’t want to challenge her, or even further engage. She probably wasn’t trying to manipulate him unintentionally, but she was in an altered state. Nothing about this was appropriate. But he did pat her on the shoulder. “Good night.”

This time, she didn’t try to stop him.


	5. Ivory

The morning was awkward, but Matt knew he had to show his face at breakfast or it would look like he was afraid of her. Also, a little voice in his brain reminded him that he _was_ curious about what Vanessa and Fisk thought about him, for so many different reasons, some of them rather unsavory.

Vanessa was her usual charming self, her demeanor completely composed. She waited until the private chef served them both and left before saying anything beyond a morning greeting. “If you were hoping I was black-out drunk last night, you’re out of luck.” G-d, she obviously loved seeing him squirm. “I admit I was presumptuous and you were a perfect gentleman. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

It wasn’t really in question, but he mumbled, “Apology accepted.”

“Come out with me today,” she said, quickly regaining her eagerness to engage him. “Oh, don’t look so terrified. I’m not going to rob a bank, or whatever it is the people you fight do.”

Matt knew he couldn’t say no to her without hearing her out first, as much as he might want to. “Where?”

“I had lunch with an old friend of mine yesterday. She’s now an assistant curator at the Met. I did an internship there years and years ago, in the restoration department. I still have friends in those circles. Do you know what that means?” She waited for Matt to shake his head. “It means I’m allowed to touch things. And not just the things they have on the usual tours for the blind.”

“You don’t have to do this for me,” he said. “And I don’t know if it’s appropriate to be seen – “

“Are you worried about what Wilson will say?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Don’t. Wilson and I share everything.”

“I know you’re trying to make that sound like it’s not creepy, but it is.”

Vanessa giggled. But, _damnit_ , she didn’t lie. “For a man who dresses up like the Devil you’re rather conservative.”

“I _was_ raised Catholic.”

***************************

“I know you’re a New Yorker and this is probably an insulting question, but have you ever been here?” Vanessa asked as she guided him to the curator area, where the exhibits not on display were kept for storage and restoration.

“Once,” he said. “I went on the orphanage trip but they didn’t do a great job of planning it, so I had a volunteer describing the paintings to me, and that was it. I do remember the Natural History Museum, when I was sighted. It’s more kid-friendly.”

“Dinosaurs and dioramas.”

“It’s more interesting to an eight-year-old.”

Security searched him again before they could be let into the private area, where he was introduced to Amy, an assistant curator working in art restoration. “So how did you and Vanessa meet?”

“He just walked into the gallery one day,” Vanessa said – which again, was not a lie. “He said people thought his apartment walls were very dreary.”

“They still are. Kind of.” Matt laughed, even though he didn’t actually know the state of his apartment, since it was no longer his.

“We usually don’t allow this,” Amy explained as she guided him around. The storage rooms were full of stray boxes and precariously-perched exhibits. “The tours for the blind instructors make you wear gloves. But one pair of hands isn’t going to actually do any damage.” She made him wash his hands with several different soaps before he could touch any of the statues. They were all delicate, even the heavy marble ones, where he could feel the weight of it before he touched it. They had a couple busts and sarcophagi out from the Greco-Roman collection, and some tiny idols from Egypt that were made of stone or copper that he could ghost his hand over without harming it. There were all sorts of things from the medieval collections, but a lot of them were wood and he could only touch those through a plastic glove.

“Do not let anyone know I let you hold this,” Amy said as she handed him a bone triptych which folded out to reveal images from Jesus’s lifetime on each side and him on the cross in the middle, hewn from the ivory. “It’s ivory.”

“I’ve never held ivory before. I mean, not that I knew of.”

“Well, it _is_ illegal now,” she explained, eager to take it back from him. The whole thing wasn’t bigger than the size of his fist when it was closed up.

***************************

“What is it like?” Vanessa asked him later, over dinner. Matt drew the line at being seen in a public restaurant with Wilson Fisk’s fiancé, so they retreated to the apartment. “A stone face versus a real one?”

“Heavier,” he said, but that was obvious. “In stone you have a static expression. In a person the expression is never static. Even if they think it is, it’s always changing. People think they can be still, but they really can’t. The body’s too active.”

“Yes, the moment we are born we start dying.”

“That’s a more classical way of putting it, but yes.”

Matt could see the road ahead of him, all laid out over the course of the day, but some part of him still resisted. Then he had three glasses of wine and his brain began to even out on the matter. Vanessa was a charming, beautiful woman and just about the only sane, fixed point in his very insane world. He couldn’t hide from her, not without physically retreating from the room, and even then he couldn’t go far. She followed him everywhere, at least in his mind, so he didn’t flee when she pressed him against the dining room wall and kissed him. He couldn’t say it was that surprising, or that he didn’t return the feelings enough to kiss back. Other reactions took a few seconds.

Even though they were kissing and everything in his body said yes, Matt Murdock still managed to push gently away and say, “No.”

Vanessa instantly stopped. “Really?” She didn’t believe him and she was right to do so. He knew he was flushed and he could smell his own arousal as much as he could smell hers. And she wasn’t easily fooled.

“I don’t think we should.” But she huffed, and his addled brain scrambled for reasons. “I – Fisk – “

“We’ve been over this, Matthew.” She did have that awful, awful way of saying his name that the bad part of him, the part he didn’t care for at the moment but was being so assertive, loved. “If you really want to stop, I will. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t want to hurt you.”

A month or a year ago he would have said she couldn’t possibly hurt him in a fit of male bravado. He still sort of thought it, but he just wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was that he felt more alive in this moment than he’d felt in months, and he didn’t want that feeling to go away, leaving him cold and empty and sad. He didn’t want to go back to that. “I ... have conditions.”

“I’m listening.”

“No cameras.”

“The only bedroom without them is – “

“Not there. Not where – “ But he couldn’t bring himself to say _Fisk_ , not in this moment, “ – he sleeps.”

“No one’s watching the feed.”

“I don’t care.”

“Fine.” She didn’t fight him on this. She straightened his collar, and his skin tingled where her fingers brushed against it. “Do you know where the cameras in your room are?”

He nodded furiously.

“Then let’s destroy them.”

It was something he’d wanted to do since Fisk dragged him in, feverish and hacking up his lungs, so Matt didn’t need any further nudging. There were only two, and he could reach them both with his cane, breaking the lenses before tearing them out of the wall. It committed him to this whole course of action – even if Vanessa had said she would stop if he wanted it – and his body was more than fine with that, and so was hers. She ached and he could tell; he realized he’d been able to tell for days, maybe weeks, but had unconsciously ignored it. He was used to reading signs, knowing people were attracted to him, but shutting it out, and now it was getting very hard to shut out.

She was as beautiful as he had suspected. He never really knew, not until he touched people. It wasn’t about conventional beauty or shape. It was about what he found soft and silky, skin that didn’t irritate his back, wasn’t too dry or overly-treated with tanning sprays and perfumes, and how her body responded, skin to skin, to his. At his touch her toes curled and that was something that was hard to fake. And driving her crazy had the same effect on him. It almost always did, but it was at its best when he was completely in sync with someone, and he had barely ever been this close with anyone since Elektra –

Later, he was sitting up and in bed, and she was curled around him and caressing the scars on his back like they were their own works of art, and she said, “Do you want to talk about her?”

At any other time he would have refused, but it was so hard to carry this grief around. It made his shoulders slump and his limbs feel heavy. “There was a time – I don’t think it’s over – where I thought she was my one true love.”

“Hmm.” Vanessa sounded skeptical. “It’s very sad to me to think that in this life, people only get _one_ true love.”

Matt had nothing to say to that.

“When my husband died, I thought my life was over,” she said. “I wasn’t about to throw myself in the grave with him, but I did think, foolishly, that my time in love was over, and if I thought I felt it again, it would only be a shadow to what I had.” She shifted around him, propping herself up on her elbow. “We think this because we think it’s romantic to idealize the person we’re with. The idea of losing them and starting again is too painful. But it closes us off to reasonable possibilities.”

Of course he’d been with people between Elektra and Karen. He didn’t think of them as second-rate. They were just ... different. And Karen was different, in a different way.

“Was she your first?” Vanessa asked, and Matt nodded. “Ah, nothing can touch that. It’s unique. I don’t blame you for romanticizing it.”

“It was awful,” he said. “She understood me better than anyone ever has. She knew all of my secrets, even the things I didn’t know about myself. But she was violent, and angry, and destructive, and – “ He stopped himself. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Your _relationship_ was awful,” she clarified.

“It almost destroyed my life. Twice. I lost my focus, my work, my friends – everything. And I still haven’t gotten it back.” He balled his hands into fist. “But I miss her _so much_.”  

Vanessa pulled herself up and took his face in her hands and kissed him as he cried. He wasn’t sobbing, but a few silent tears were more than he’d managed so far. She kissed the tears away as they fell and said nothing. There were no judgements and he buried himself in her arms.

The second time they were slower, more careful to explore, more deliberate in their touches. Matt did succeed in finding the tattoo on his own, to Vanessa’s delight. It was so old that he had to be very close to smell any ink, but he could make out the crude flower pattern that sat on her skin, making it feel raised and smoother than the rest of the skin.

The second time they were slower, more careful to explore, more deliberate in their touches. Matt did succeed in finding the tattoo on his own, to Vanessa’s delight. It was so old that he had to be very close to smell any ink, but he could make out the crude flower pattern that sat on her skin, making it feel raised and smoother. This seemed to amuse her, because she giggled in a far more innocent manner than she usually did. In fact, Matt would never call her _innocent_ , even if she sounded that way for a passing moment.

There were bits of dozing throughout the night, but no real sleep until dawn, when they nodded off tangled in each other’s arms on Matt’s slim bed.

“I like the sheets,” she said when he finally got up to shower. He knew he smelled of sex and he felt self-conscious about it. He did not invite her to join him.

“I do indulge myself occasionally,” he replied, his voice appropriately soft for the hour. “When it’s important.”

They briefly separated, and met up at breakfast, where they were not unkind, but certainly not lovey-dovey.

“Do you regret last night?” Vanessa straight-out asked him.

Matt sensed that for once, she really didn’t know the answer already. “No. But don’t tell – “

“ _Matthew_.”

He grimaced. “Don’t give him the details.”

***************************

Matt met up with Foggy at a coffee shop. It was a public place and for the first time, he wasn’t followed. He wasn’t sure what it implied but he tried not to focus on it. Foggy was at least a bit more calmed down. He smelled new again – new clothes for his new job, ones that didn’t smell like the secondhand clothing shop his old suits used to come from. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Foggy.” He wanted to be reassuring, but he really wasn’t sure he _was_ okay in the first place. Still, he felt like he made a good show of it.

“No more, um, pictures?”

“No pictures.”

“That’s good.” Foggy swallowed. “Karen wants to, um, apologize. For hitting you.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I didn’t know she did that, for the record. Though, sometimes you do things that make people want to punch you.”

Matt smiled. “I noticed.” He sipped his coffee. “What’s up with her and Frank?”

“You really are on a first-name basis with him.”

“Between punches, yeah. And kicks. And I think he threw me through a window.”

“I’m shaking my head,” Foggy said, because he was doing so. “You didn’t tell me you were pals with the Punisher.”

“I’m not. I only saw him once after the trial and that was – well, the fight with the Hand.” He didn’t want to specify that exact moment. It made his stomach clench. “But Karen – “

“Yeah, it’s weird. She hasn’t explained it. I don’t know if they’re _together_ together – I don’t think they are. It’s just weird. Everything is weird right now, okay? I’m worried about her but I don’t want to look too closely.”

“You think he’ll hurt her?”

“Fuck no. If I thought that I would have sicced you on him,” Foggy said. “Maybe she’s a calming influence on him or ... something. I really don’t know. But she’s not taking questions about it.”

Honestly, he didn’t put it past her. She’d been obsessed with Daredevil and dated Matt. She had a type. “At least we know she’s protected.”

“Against Fisk?”

“I don’t think he really wants her,” he said. “She wasn’t Hoffman’s attorney.”

“That’s what this is all about?”

“We did put him away on Hoffman’s evidence. He holds grudges.”

Foggy sighed. “Has he said anything to you? I mean about, I don’t know, future plans?”

“He never talks business in the apartment. And he’s been out of town for the last few days.”

“So you’re alone in his apartment?”

“Vanessa’s there. And there’s a security – “

“Vanessa,” Foggy repeated. “He left you alone with his girlfriend? Did he not do any actual research on you beyond your education and your costume collection?”

“Foggy. Come on. This is serious.”

“Because clearly his research did not extend to the streak of female professors – “

“It was not a _streak_.”

“ – that you happened not to have as teachers that semester.”

It was had been hard to come back from Elektra. After her, the law school students had seemed immature, if in a different way. He leaned his head back. Good times. “They weren’t even professors in _the law school_ , Foggy. I’m not an idiot.”

“You have your blind spots. You have a big idiot part of your brain that used to just be filled with psychotic or more mature women. Now I know there’s punching and kicking and murder – “

“I’ve never killed anyone,” he said firmly.

“ – in there too. And okay, not Castle style, but not for lack of trying,” Foggy replied and Matt couldn’t totally deny that, not after Nobu. “My point is, part of you does not make good decisions. And now I’m sorry I might have put this idea in your head.”

“It was already there.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Foggy had cornered him. Verbally. It was how Foggy Nelson cornered people. “Just don’t – try not to make this worse than it already is.”

Matt could answer him honestly on this. “I’m trying.”


	6. Legit

Chapter 6

Despite all of Foggy’s reasonable advice, said in Matt’s best interest, Matt indulged Vanessa again that night. Fisk would be back in the early morning, so they were careful about the time. Vanessa seemed a little too cool with the idea of being interrupted and Matt put up a hard boundary on that.

He had been with men before. A couple times, mostly when he was depressed about some failed relationship with a woman. But Fisk – there was too much between them. There always would be.

Vanessa, being the decent woman that she was, respected that. So they politely separated and showered and Matt was asleep when Fisk returned, and didn’t see him at all when he left for Sunday Mass. He was tempted to go to Confession, but was not about to confess any venial sins. That would take a while since he had a lot backed up in that particular area, and he didn’t care for being asked to repent for something he wasn’t sure was wrong and fully intended to do again. If Vanessa and Fisk were married, he’d have a little bit of guilt over it, but that would all be on his end, not theirs. Clearly, they knew where they both stood on the matter.

He couldn’t avoid Fisk forever. Vanessa was out for the day when Fisk called him to the dining room. There was no food present, and Matt found that a little ominous. Fisk himself was nervous. He was shifting his weight a lot, fidgeting just a bit, only enough for Matt to notice because he’d spent so much time around him recently. Fisk had something in his hands – paperwork, it smelled like – but Matt didn’t know what it was. He was ready to bail on any more vague threats. He calculated how long it would take him to get to the door.

“I have a ... proposal for you,” Fisk said. “It’s not like the other proposals.”

He handed Matt the folder, which was thick with braille paperwork on heavy cardstock. It would take him a long time to go through it.

“It’s an offer,” Fisk explained. “I know corporate law wasn’t your chosen field, but Wesley’s research did mention that you excelled at your time at Landman and Zack. This time I would prefer someone in-house. Someone I could trust.”

Matt smothered a laugh. “You trust me?”

“I _know_ you,” Fisk said, which was about as open and honest as Fisk probably got with people he’d tried to kill. “Vanessa knows you. You’re trustworthy. And obviously this business is all ... legitimate.”

Now Matt really did laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s true. Trust has to go both ways, Mr. Murdock.”

Fisk _was_ telling the truth, but Matt said, “I still don’t believe you. Or is this a separate part of your business?” When Fisk hesitated, he pressed him. “Are you telling me that all of your businesses are now legitimate?”

After a moment of flustered half-speech, Fisk re-found his confidence. “You’re a lawyer, so you know that I won’t be answering that question directly. Unless you are planning to also take on the position as my personal attorney. Which I would never ask you to do.”

“It would be a conflict of interest.” To say the least.

“You’re a man of ethics. They may not always ... completely align with mine, but you can at least respect that I have my own set, too. I’m not lying about that, am I?”

“I don’t think so.” Matt had never admitted to any truth-telling abilities. Maybe the Fisks just thought he was really smart. He didn’t want to reveal anything he didn’t have to. “But we disagree in some pretty important places. And you tend to kill people you disagree with.”

“That was never proven in court.”

“Hmph.” Matt tried to hide his amusement. “That’s true. They never did find Leland Owsley’s body.”

Fisk’s heartrate spiked but he didn’t take the bait. “This offer is ... ironclad. Your position would be solid, well-paying, and never conflict with any personal interests or moral positions you may have. And it would – clear our accounts, so to speak. All of them.”

“Foggy.”

“Yes.”

“Karen.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else I feel like adding to that list.”

Fisk nodded. “You dictate the terms.”

But what would that give Fisk license to do? Matt couldn’t think of everyone that needed protecting ahead of time. “You know what my answer’s going to be.”

“I have a guess what your answer is right now. But I want to ask you to think about it. For as long as you want. It’s a detailed contract and I would be surprised if you raced through it. And I think I am owed a certain amount of consideration when making such a generous offer.”

Matt wanted to huff. He wanted to throw the envelope back in Fisk’s face. But Fisk was right in that Matt should, at the very least, give the offer the appearance of proper respect and deliberation.

And this was his ticket out.

“If you could do it – really make your business above board, on all counts,” Matt asked, “would you?”

Fisk drew back and took a deep breath. He was thinking. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

Damn Fisk and his clever ability to tell the truth. “Think about it,” Matt said, and left, but he took the folder with him.

***************************

Fisk was relieved when Murdock left. He tried to move on to other things, but he was distracted about when Vanessa would be getting home, and what he would say to her. She liked Murdock a lot – in her own way, she loved him – and she didn’t want him to leave, especially not because Fisk had wantonly driven him out. But she was also good at facing reality. Better than either him or Murdock, that was for sure.

The talk hadn’t exactly gone badly. Murdock had done what Fisk thought he would do – press for answers and twist the knife, like a good attorney cross-examining a witness, pressing him for hard answers he couldn’t give. But it hadn’t escalated, hadn’t turned into a shouting match or worse, and they were both certainly capable of it. He had remained calm, and Murdock had remained calm, even a little bemused, treating it like a trap he wasn’t dumb enough to be snared in, even if it wasn’t, and might be starting to believe it. Fisk wasn’t about to underestimate him again – everything in the contract was as straight-forward and honest as possible. He would basically hold Murdock on retainer for the legal nitty-gritties of his corporate interests, which wouldn’t require many hours or Murdock showing his face in court, and in return Murdock could go back to his life of beating up not-particularly-upstanding members of Hell’s Kitchen’s lower classes or whatever else made him sleep better at night. Fisk had no love of muggers, low-level drug dealers, or violent gang members. No, he did not see much use for the law on a grander scale, but he wasn’t about to get his hands dirty again. He was prepared to be a lot more subtle, and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen didn’t go beating up people in board rooms. For all of his high moral talk, he was much more vulgar than that. The sophisticated side of him needed to be teased out, something Vanessa seemed to do with incredible ease. Fisk had seen it now – Matthew Murdock, the legal scholar, the man of principles, the disciplined learner, the devout believer, even the wide-eyed (sort of) dreamer. He wasn’t an unsophisticated man. He was clever and witty and charming in his own right.

In different circumstances, they might not have been enemies at all.

Vanessa returned from work, and to her unasked question, he said softly, “He didn’t say no yet.”

“Patience,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Even if it doesn’t work ... you tried. He knows that you did. _I_ know that you did.”

Really, when it came to Vanessa, that was all that mattered.

***************************

It took Matt some time to work up to visiting Karen at her office. It seemed more polite than her home (and he didn’t want to deal with Frank, if he might be found there). It wasn’t that he was scared so much that he was exhausted from just imagining another confrontation with her. He played out all of the worst possible options and decided on visiting during the day, when she would be less likely to throw him out a window in front of her co-workers. Hopefully.

One nice thing about being blind was that his presence could make receptionists flustered with new responsibility, which meant they often forgot if he had the right credentials or a good reason for visiting an office in the first place, so all he had to say was Karen’s name and the woman at the front desk called a security guard to guide him up and walk him all the way to Karen’s office in the back of the newsroom, slightly off center and away from the harried interns circling the main floor. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Karen made some sort of gesture to the guard, who told Matt what extension to dial if he needed help on his way out and left.

“I need help,” Matt said. “I need your research abilities, actually.” He closed the door. “Is this Ben Urich’s office?”

“Yeah, I um – they assigned it to me.” She fidgeted at her crowded desk. “They never even cleaned it out.”

“Yeah, it smells like him.” Meaning, clove cigarettes and ink. “Congratulations, by the way. On your new job. Foggy says you really like it.”

“I do. Except when I have writer’s block.” She gestured to her computer. “I just, um, pointed to the computer. But you can tell that, right?”

“I have to be concentrating,” he said, “but yes.”

“There’s a chair to your left,” she said, but didn’t make any further specifications as he took his seat. “All those years that you made Foggy help – “

“I never _made_ Foggy help me,” Matt said, trying to keep the edge off his voice. “He offered and it helps. I can’t focus on everything all the time. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I’m in a noisy crowd and it’s just impossible. And there are some things I can’t do.” He added, “I didn’t lie about being blind. I just wasn’t completely honest about my other senses, and I’m sorry.”

“Fine, okay.” Karen didn’t want to push the point, either. It was still too raw for both of them. With Foggy he had been forced to hash things out quickly, to take down Wilson Fisk, but Karen was different. “How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Just okay.” She deserved the truth now. Or at least some of it. “I need information on Fisk.”

“The only things I have that are fit to print is stuff you already know or don’t want me to print.”

“Not to print. Just to know. He’s only shown me the legitimate side of his business. I want to know the rest of it. Or just that there is another side.”

“He’s sharing his business plans with you?”

Matt swallowed. “He made me an offer. I would be on retainer, but only for the legal side of the business. Which he does have. I wouldn’t have to do anything that crossed any lines for me.”

“Why would he think that you would take that?!”

He wasn’t surprised by her response. “Because it would, um, settle our accounts. That’s the other part of the offer.”

“But - ,” and Karen stopped herself from saying anything further. She made that huffing sound she made when she was exasperated, and for a moment Matt thought he was back in their office, giving her bad news about casework. “Matt. You know you can’t take it.”

“I don’t want to.” Matt settled his cane so it was resting against his shoulder. The last thing he wanted to do was do corporate law for Wilson Fisk.

“I wanted to investigate,” she said, “but you were against it.”

“I know. And I still sort of am. But just – if there’s anything to go on, even if there’s nothing that’s fit to print, I need to know about it.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He was saying that phrase all the time and he hated himself for it. “I think it’ll just give me some clarity.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up. You only want current things, right?” she asked and he nodded. “It might take some time. Will you be okay until then?”

“Yes.”

“You say that, but there’s a reason we don’t believe you,” Karen said. “You look awful, Matt.”

“Really?” He honestly didn’t know how he looked to people, he just knew how much better he was than when Fisk found him.

“You’re thinner than I’ve ever seen you and you walk like you haven’t slept in days.”

She wanted something. “It’s stressful, I guess. It’s confusing. I thought he would just kill me, or make me do something horrible. But he hasn’t done anything.”

“He’s playing mind games.”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going through his head, but he doesn’t lie to me. Neither of them lie to me. It’s – kind of crazy. I’m used to people lying.” To which, Karen unconsciously cleared her throat and he added, “No offense. It’s just part of natural speech. In New York, anyway. I don’t think anything of it most of the time. And it is an invasion of privacy.”

“But you can always tell.”

“Some people have succeeded in lying to me,” he said, “but they were all ninjas. They could do things with their heartbeats.” He didn’t need to add that Elektra was one of them, that he had never been able to tell if she was lying or not, and it had been, in the early stages of their relationship, something that excited him. “Everybody lies, Karen. I don’t think less of people for it.”

“That includes you, of course,” Karen said, then backtracked. “Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

“But still shitty. Look, I’m sorry about how things went between us when you ... confessed to me. I had asked you to be honest and you were and my response was awful.”

“I did – “

“I don’t want to have the whole betrayal conversation again,” she said. “Can we just forgive each other, and move on?”

Matt smiled. “I’d really like that.”

***************************

Matt went from Karen’s to daily Mass, which he didn’t normally do, and stayed after, fidgeting with his cane in the pews while Father Lantom chatted more casually with the regulars.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said as the priest joined him. “I haven’t been ready to talk to anyone.”

“I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone’s avoiding their priest,” Lantom said, “and to know it’s not my business as to why they choose to do so. But it is a relief to see you here each week. There were some rumors about – well, you know.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Father.”

Lantom sighed and gestured to his head, forming horns. “I just pointed – “

“I know. I could tell.”

“Someday you’re going to tell me how you do what you do, and I don’t know if I’ll sleep better or worse.”

Matt grinned. “What did you hear?”

“That the neighborhood’s patron devil either died or retired. And I didn’t see _you_ around, so I was a bit concerned.” He was standing next to him, leaning against the pew, and he leaned over like a stern school principal. “Should I be concerned?”

“You missed the main event,” Matt said. “Something I couldn’t punch my way out of. Pneumonia. Bedrest, fluids, antibiotics, and I’m all better.”

“Yes, people usually come to church on a weekday when they’re feeling cheerful and carefree. So, coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Matt said. “This one might take a while.”

***************************

It wasn’t that Matt had much to confess – they never formally went in the booth – but he had to puzzle out what was going on in a way that would make some sense to Father Lantom when it didn’t make much sense to him in the first place. Talking about Elektra first was easier, in a strange way – he did it clinically, in a direct, straightforward manner like he was explaining the facts of the case to a jury, and was on to other things before he got too emotional. Then Fisk, then Vanessa, because she was a huge part of this interlocking puzzle he was trapped in. Lantom didn’t interrupt him to criticize his behavior except in that offhanded, disarming way of his.

“This was the man you planned to kill,” Lantom clarified for himself.

“I apologized to him for it. I don’t know why – I was sick, I was on a ton of medication, and I was confused. But I realized I still felt guilty about it.”

“Because you could see him beyond the monster you thought he was.”

“Yes. Karen and Foggy – they don’t see that. I guess I can’t expect them to. I’ve barely told them anything, except the blackmail part of it. And I demonized him for so long – and he does deserve it. He’s killed several people with his bare hands. He watched other people die in front of him. He tried to kill me twice. He’s a violent, malicious person who doesn’t have a problem doing evil things. But when his temper’s in check, and he’s not threatened, he’s a different person.”

“Surely you understand because you’re more familiar than most with having two sides to a single personality,” Lantom said. “But it is different. Your cause, you thought at the time, was righteous. His cause ... that I can’t speak for.”

“He said he wanted to fix Hell’s Kitchen. He said that from the beginning, back when I was just some guy in a mask to him. He wanted to make it a better place. I just felt buying off the police and blowing up buildings wasn’t the way to do it. I think we still disagree about that, but of course he doesn’t discuss that side of his business with me.” Matt fiddled with the edges of the coffee cup. “He could have destroyed me and he saved my life instead. I don’t know what to do with that.”

“It shows he has compassion, but it doesn’t require you give up all of your skepticism.”

“I have someone looking into things,” Matt said. “I know he’s not going straight. He’s not even really hiding that from me. I can’t let that slide. Even if I took the deal, for Foggy and Karen’s sake – “ He shook his head.

“The path you’ve chosen has always been a dangerous one,” Lantom said. “I can’t officially endorse it, because of the legal repercussions and because you just might get yourself or someone else killed. But when a man of conviction is driven to act because he believes his cause is righteous, and when he gives something of himself to save others – that’s not something I can stand against. Do you understand what I’m saying, Matthew?”

“Yes,” Matt replied. “I think so.”

***************************

Matt was pretty sure it wasn’t about him, but Fisk was acting straight-up weird. He was usually a calm, collected man, but he spent the day pacing furiously, then dealt with the delivery man with a nervous whisper, then had his men move the new piece of art back and forth half a dozen times before giving up and placing it on the ground, against the wall of the living room, for further consideration. Their hearts were racing with anxiety when they were released. Fisk dragged over a chair and placed it a couple feet from the painting, where he sat staring.

Vanessa wasn’t home to clear this all up and smooth Fisk’s ruffled feathers. After a little while, Matt couldn’t contain himself. “I have to ask.”

“It’s a painting.”

“I know _that_ ,” he said. “It’s in oils. And I think you bought it straight from a perfume shop.”

“An upscale women’s clothing store,” Fisk corrected. It seemed for a moment like he would go back to his meditation, but he paused and said, “I found this painting at Vanessa’s gallery. She noticed my interest in it and it was ... how we met.”

“Oh.” Matt stopped himself from saying that it was romantic. It sounded ridiculous, even in his head, to actually say that. “That’s nice.”

“It was seized by the FBI,” Fisk explained. “After that it ended up at a police auction, where the frame was significantly damaged, and it was purchased by a secondhand dealer. It’s taken a long time to track it down.” There was no malice in his voice, just – sadness, maybe? “It has a texture. Angry brushstrokes in layer after layer. Vanessa can describe it better. But your hands would – “

“ – Damage it, right. I know.” Matt sensed that Fisk really would have honored his word here if the painting wasn’t so precious to him. “Is it titled?”

“ _Rabbit in a Snowstorm_ ,” Fisk said. “It’s all white.”

“No actual rabbit?”

“No.”

“Just layers of white?”

Fisk nodded. “I’m afraid it’s a bit visual.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

He was going to leave, but Fisk asked, “Can I ask you something?”

Fisk sounded a little lost, maybe over the painting. It affected him dearly. So Matt said, “Yes.”

“Do you only see black?”

Matt wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. The wording was inelegant, but Fisk was trying to ask about color without highlighting the other colors too much. “I’m not really sure if I would describe it as a color. I’m not really ‘seeing’ anything anyway. I just think I am because I used to be sighted. I didn’t really understand it until I met with people who were blind from birth in trauma counseling. Everyone always tries to explain color to them, and they said it never really works. They understand the concept that color is a descriptor for things, but not what it is.” He added, “Please don’t ask me which I think is better. I hate that question.”

“To be born or – “

“Yes. The experiences are not comparable.”

Again, he tried to leave. Again, Fisk, who wasn’t interested in the world around him or its hints, said, “The company that transported the chemicals – the ones that blinded you – they’re still in business.”

Matt stopped in his tracks. He supposed there was no reason to be surprised at Fisk’s thoroughness, and Fisk’s tone was trying to be cautiously curious, with a side of comforting. As always, Matt wasn’t sure what to do with that. “Yeah, I think they are.”

“Have you thought about – “

“No.” He didn’t mind interrupting Fisk on this one. “There were legal proceedings, but we didn’t have a good lawyer, so nothing really came of it. There were some fines, and they paid my medical bills. It was an accident. And ... it was a long time ago. I was a kid, grappling with being disabled. My dad was a mess. I was a mess. I didn’t get too involved in going after any company or truck drivers, emotionally. And then my father died, and I lost any interest I had in the first place.”

“You would still do it.” Fisk was making a statement, not asking a question. “You would still save that man.”

“Of course.”

“That’s very noble of you.” The next line, Fisk really had to choke out, beyond how he normally spoke. “What happened to my father you’ve – you knew Urich. You know ... things.”

Matt gave a non-committal shrug.

“As awful as any event might have ... theoretically been, I would still – it was the worst day of my life, and I still – I had to do it. I would do it. All over again.”

“Because of your mother.”

“Hypothetically, yes.”

Matt’s jaw tightened around his next words. He never imagined that anyone could kill their own father, except by accident, and/or in self-defense. Or in defense of their mother. “Some people would judge you for what you did. Certainly the courts would like their shot.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“I’m a defense attorney,” Matt said. “It’s not my place to judge.”

Matt wasn’t sure, but he thought Fisk was smiling.

***************************

Matt Murdock wasn’t an attorney _all_ the time.

Karen gave him a heads up in a text message, about as encoded as she thought was enough – a location and a time frame. Vanessa and Fisk were out for the evening, and while the guards would let Fisk know about Matt’s comings and goings, Fisk would just have to deal.

No one followed him, but Matt focused on any potential subjects just to be sure before getting the new black hoodie from his backpack and putting it over his regular clothes. He didn’t really need the black mask when he had his hood up and didn’t want to be recognized as Daredevil, but he had it on him just in case things got hairy.

Taking to the rooftops was so ... easy. He’d lost muscle, but not muscle memory. He was lighter without the suit. The wind was stronger on rooftops but not nearly as strong as in Fisk’s apartment. Smells and sounds of the city still drifted up. And it was a warm night, so it made things a bit staler and therefore smellier than when New York was frozen solid, which it rarely ever was because Manhattan was in a bay area. He could always smell the Hudson, but it was stronger when he neared the warehouse. He stood atop it, several flights up from the people coming and going, but he could hear just about everything.

“Hey, Red.”

He’d heard Frank, too. Heard the spike of his heartbeat upon realizing he wasn’t alone with his guns. He had a small kit, but still sizable enough to take out a lot of people.

“I guess this means no killing without a lecture tonight?”

Matt shifted his focus away from the people beneath them. Now he knew where Karen got her information. “I’m not going to let you murder anyone.”

“You really up to fighting me?”

“You ready to look like you’re beating up a homeless blind guy?”

Frank laughed. “So what’s your deal?”

“The people downstairs. Have you been tailing them? Do they work for Fisk?”

“Someone’s reorganizing the gangs in Hell’s Kitchen from above,” Frank said.

“Gao.”

“Who?”

“She controls the Chinese gangs. Used to bring in heroin. Worked with the Blacksmith, then went quiet for a while. Maybe she sensed you were coming. She’s weird.”

“With the tea leaves and the opium pipe? Am I picturing the right kind of person or am I being a little bit racist?”

“You’re not wrong. But she just supplies,” he said. “She’s the only other player I know who’s not dead or in Riker’s.”

“I guess that’s saying something,” Frank said as he cleaned one of his guns. He could do it without looking. Hell, he was probably just doing it for fun. “Supply and demand. Someone was going to come, sooner or later.”

“I need to know if it’s Fisk.”

“Why? You’re not going to finish the job.”

“Because I do.” Matt didn’t want to explain this to Frank. He switched topics. “Karen get this information from you?”

“She _gave_ the information to me, thank you very much.”

“So she’s helping you now.”

“Stay out of it, Red,” Frank said. It was pretty clear how far he was willing to take that threat. “I know you got a shitty deal, okay? But you were a shitty friend, too. What goes around comes around. So stay out of her business unless she offers to tell you about it.”

Frank had a point. Matt hated it when Frank had a point. “Fine.”

“You really going to fight me, if I go down and do what needs to be done?”

Matt shrugged. “Like you said. Supply and demand. People are still going to want to buy drugs tomorrow.”

Frank cursed under his breath, which Matt heard just fine. Sounded like the Punisher didn’t like being called on his bluff. Frank stood up and cocked his rifle, but didn’t point it at Matt. “This is a freebie. Next time, no one’s getting a pass. That means you, too.”

“Noted.” He waited for Frank to pack up his gear and leave before fully shifting his attention back to the drug deal going down beneath his feet. No specifics were mentioned, most of the men were pretending like they weren’t on snapchat while the main players bickered over a shipment, and Matt Murdock sat and waited for them to finish. There were no drugs present tonight, so putting in a 911 call wouldn’t result in any arrests. He waited patiently for the group to break up, and for the guys who stayed back to clean up. The guy left to do the final lock-up got five feet from the building before Matt jumped him and dragged him into the alley.

“Who do you work for?”

“I don’t know!” Fortunately for this thug, he wasn’t lying. “They never say his name.”

Matt shoved him to the side and climbed up the fire escape. It was less than the thug deserved, but it was more than Matt needed.

  

***************************

 

Matt waited. He avoided both of them, staying downstairs, until the next day, when Vanessa went out, and he was left with Fisk and one guard. He found him in the dining room, reading something or other, and Matt stood in silence, until Fisk dismissed the guard. “Well?”

“I’m not here about the job offer.”

“No.” Fisk closed his desktop. “I didn’t think you would be.”

Fisk had confidence. His heart rate was steady. Matt stood across from him. “You could have gone legitimate.”

“But I never made the claim that I did,” Fisk said. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“You could,” Matt said. “How much money does a person need?”

“Yes, I noticed the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen only concerns himself with drug dealers and petty thieves,” Fisk spat. “Not capable of seeing the larger picture – no offense.”

“Offense taken.” Even though he knew Fisk didn’t mean it.

“Wall Street and hedge fund managers have destroyed more lives in this city than anyone after a tourist’s wallet. But that’s a bit of a problem for you. I guess high rises with security systems are harder to skulk around in. Is that the kind of criminal I should be? The one that you seem to find harmless?” Fisk was mocking him, if in a sedated fashion for Fisk. “Or are you going to encourage your former employee to write a article about me that’s little more than slander, without a single quotable source, while more boring targets go about their business? I would threaten her but I don’t think she’ll write a decent article anyway.”

Matt slammed his fist on the table. “You stay away – “

“Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my time than deal with another disposable reporter.”

Ben. He could only be talking about Ben. Strangled in his own home – a surprisingly intimate act – if one didn’t know much about Wilson Fisk. Ben had been a good man, a kind man, and he hadn’t deserved to die and Matt lost it, and leapt over the table to tackle Fisk. When he toppled it, it shattered behind him, but the guard was long gone. Fisk was ready for him. Fisk was bigger and stronger, but Matt was faster. He slipped away from Fisk’s response, to pin him against the wall, and leapt up on the counter before coming down on Fisk’s head. The punch wasn’t very strong given all that his body had been through recently, but it connected with Fisk’s eye socket. Fisk howled and lurched forward, smashing his forehead into Matt’s face. Matt was knocked back, and he had a split-second to duck away from Fisk’s punch. He didn’t get far, because Fisk roared and hurled a chair at him, which struck Matt in the side and he toppled, but this time when Fisk came on him he was ready, and broke the chair over Fisk’s head. Fisk rolled off him and onto the carpet, and they lay side-by-side, panting not so much from exertion but from the expended energy that came with rage.

Matt could feel the blood from his nose pouring down the sides of his face. It was more than his hand could handle, and it took him a second to register that Fisk was offering him one of his handkerchiefs.

“The carpet is white,” Fisk told him, and Matt growled, but accepted it and felt expensive silk against his nose. Fisk asked, “Is it broken?”

“No,” Matt said. He tapped his nose just to be sure. “Is your eye okay?” He was fairly sure he’d hit something squishy, but Fisk didn’t smell of blood except the stuff around his mouth, which probably came from Matt’s face.

“I can see out of it, if that’s what you mean,” Fisk said.

Fisk didn’t get up. Neither of them did. Maybe neither of them knew what to do, but continuing the fight didn’t seem like a completely fantastic idea.

“I’m going to fire that guard,” Fisk announced. “After he cleans up the kitchen.”

Matt could sense all the shattered glass, at least the big chunks. “Vanessa’s going to be furious at us.”

“There is a good ... possibility of that.”

Matt’s nose was swelling up. From the heat radiating off Fisk’s face, his eye was doing the same. The longer they waited, the worse it would be. Matt’s side ached when he climbed to his feet, undoubtedly smearing blood on the wall that he clutched for support. Fisk wasn’t the type to stoop to having frozen vegetables in the fridge, but he did have ice packs. Matt took one for himself and covered his nose, which now was impossible to breathe through, and made his way back to where Fisk was lying and passed him one.

They didn’t speak for a while as they tried to clean themselves and the place up, or at least stem the bleeding in Matt’s case, which involved rolled up tissue being shoved up his nose. The table was unrecoverable, but Fisk seemed rather unperturbed by that, in comparison to the situation in general. The returned guard swept up all the glass, righted the disturbed furniture, and was told his last paycheck was in the mail. He seemed very relieved to be out of there. After that, there was nothing to do but wait for Vanessa.

“For the sake of my apartment, can we agree to disagree on certain ... topics?”

Matt would have glared at him if he could have. “We both know that’s not going to happen.”

Fisk sighed. “I suppose we do.”


	7. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was kind of a wild ride for me, because it was the first time I'd written from Fisk or Vanessa's POV, or used Fisk at all, really. It was also the first time I made Karen a major player. I usually ignore her because I don't like her, and I tried to capture the person from the show without making her all whiny just to be mean. But guys, she does yell at people a hell of a lot for things that may or may not be their fault. So that ended up in the fic.
> 
> If anyone wants to do a porn-y follow-up where Matt, Fisk, and Vanessa try to navigate a poly relationship while Matt is laid up or goes back to Daredevilling, that would be so awesome. It's one of the few things I can't write to save my life.

Vanessa wasn’t the kind of woman who shouted. She was the kind of woman who fumed, whose remarks were biting, but who kept her voice down and whose inner calm betrayed nothing of what she was actually feeling. Matt couldn’t get a real read on her when she was trying to cover up an emotion, but especially now, when he muddled by pain and missing an additional sense.

She did not dismiss their behavior as “boys will be boys” (though it was clear she thought of both of them as toddlers at the moment even if she didn’t say it), which had been their hope, nor did she act totally surprised. Disappointed was the best word, though Matt had a feeling she was saving most of it up for Fisk, presumably because (a) he was older, (b) this was his apartment and Matt was a guest, and (c) he was the one actually marrying her. She dressed them down considerably, but only after attending to Fisk’s eye, which had apparently swollen completely shut. Matt obediently ate his dinner (tasting almost nothing of it) and fled at the earliest possible moment, leaving Fisk to his fate. The last he heard between them before putting on his headphones was that this was _not_ the first dining room table Fisk had gone through.

And she also didn’t make them make-up in front of her, so that was good. Neither of them could lie their way through that one.

Matt avoided Vanessa – the way he would put it was that he avoided Fisk – for the next day, which he spent wondering how he was going to make it through church if his nose didn’t look like less of a warzone on Sunday. The swelling went down overnight, and he could smell and taste again, but he knew there was bruising.

To his surprise, it was Fisk, not Vanessa, who knocked on his door. Fisk was unusually edgy, wring his hands together, and very much trying to pretend like Wednesday hadn’t happened. “I need to ask a – favor.”

Matt cocked his head to the side as a response.

“I can’t – be there tonight, for the gallery opening. There’s still too much ... attention,” he said, sputtering a little more than he normally would. “This is her night. I don’t want to be ... a distraction.”

Before he lived with Fisk, Matt would have assumed that Fisk just wanted to stay out of the spotlight to keep suspicion off him. It was his _modus operandi_. But Matt knew better now, and he knew that, without even reading Fisk’s heartbeat, Fisk was doing this for Vanessa’s benefit, not his. Fisk would have loved to be there. He supported Vanessa in her career and they shared a deep love of fine art, which had birthed their relationship. It was one of the most genuine parts about him (other than him being a raging homicidal maniac at times). And Vanessa _never_ would have told him not to come, so this idea had to be all his.

“What does Vanessa think?” was Matt’s initial response.

“She says I’m ... a little prone to paranoia,” Fisk admitted, “but she didn’t think it was a bad idea.” He added, “You don’t go with her. You’re just ... there.”

“For you?”

Fisk was even more uncomfortable at that idea, which amused Matt, but he did answer. “Sort of. But – for Vanessa. She should have someone to support her.”

“Personally I don’t think Vanessa _needs_ support from either of us,” Matt said. Which was the honest truth.

“I agree.” Fisk had no hesitation in saying that. “But she deserves it.”

Matt couldn’t disagree. “I’ll go.”

“Thank you.” After that, Fisk fled as quickly as possible.

***************************

Fisk sent him to a very expensive-smelling men’s clothing store, the kind with only a few customers and a full-service staff. Matt was secretly relieved, as he had no idea what to wear and had not picked out clothes without Foggy for a long time, and he didn’t think he could answer for his still-bruised nose while also asking fashion advice (plus Foggy always tried to sneak a crazy tie in there somewhere). Matt knew what colors he looked good in (sort of) and what fabrics he preferred, so that streamlined the process, and he got a new suit in record time. Gallery openings were not black-tie affairs so he didn’t walk out with a tuxedo he wouldn’t know when he would use again, and even some free makeup on his face to cover his recent injury.

He didn’t go with Vanessa. No one wanted to start rumors that she was cheating on her crime lord fiancé and Matt hated posing for pictures. He kept his cane folded up in his jacket, hung out by the back wall, and hoped he just looked like a douchebag artist trying to make a bad fashion statement with sunglasses at night. He tuned in and out of the conversations, most of which were impossibly dull to him. There was an unusual amount of lying, especially about what artists thought of each other’s work (almost always a lie) and fashion choices (same). Speculative buyers talked price, but only amongst themselves, and only to complain about it. The rest was social chatter about people and businesses he knew nothing about, and he only heard the name Fisk a couple times, without anything interesting said. He held himself back from any scattered derisive remark about Vanessa’s romantic choices, said far out of her hearing range – hopefully – because his fists had already gotten him in trouble once this week and he figured that was enough.

Perhaps to stop people from making a scene, it was a cash bar for anything beyond champagne, a drink that made him feel bubbles in his stomach for longer than he liked, so Matt stuck to water and allowed himself one overpriced scotch because it busied his hands for a while. He could be social, but he didn’t feel like it, though he did stand there and pretend to listen to a couple different artists explain how the painting behind them symbolized their relationship with their mother. He suspected Vanessa would leave that part out to prospective buyers.

Because he couldn’t look like a helpless stalker with creepy glasses all night, he did eventually make his way over to Vanessa when she was less engaged in any particular conversation.

“Matthew,” she said, and this time her enthusiasm wasn’t fake. “You look very dashing.”

“I had to take the clerk’s word on it,” he said with what he knew was an equally dashing smile. “From all the compliments I’ve heard you receive tonight, I’ll assume you appear spectacular.”

“Were any of them legitimate?”

“You would be surprised.”

He wasn’t her bodyguard for the evening, but that didn’t mean he was ignoring things happening around him. There was the smell of gunpowder, different and more concentrated than the smell from the guards in the corners, and the sounds of a fast-stepping person in heavy boots moving swiftly. Matt rudely shoved Vanessa to the floor and threw himself at the shooter, who only got a single shot off before Matt grabbed his arm and twisted it until he heard a satisfying snap. People didn’t even start screaming until the gun hit the ground, angry metal on polished wood, but the shooter continued to fight because Matt hadn’t let him go. He was ridiculously off-balance, taken by surprise by the counter attack, and Matt shoved him into what was probably a nice painting, because Vanessa had taste, but only dented the plaster behind it. Matt was able to hold him back long enough for people to gather themselves and scatter. The bodyguards attended Vanessa, and then Matt realized how much time must have passed because the cops were suddenly there and the cops were never quick to be anywhere, and he almost fought them when they pulled him off the shooter but he was so, so tired.

“Sir, is that your blood?”

Matt was about to explain that yes, he’d had a nosebleed, but the blood wasn’t on his face. He tasted copper in the air and his suit clutched his skin because it was soaked and belatedly he realized that he must have been -

***************************

Everything was like trying to hold water. There were sounds and smells – a machine being turned on, the forever lingering smell of antiseptic trying to cover up hints of something worse, the feeling of cotton on his skin – but he couldn’t put them all together. His mind was slow and hazy and his senses swung wildly out of control from one direction to the next, picking up smells from the food vendor on the street who really needed to change his grease trap, to Matt’s own heartbeat just being way too loud, to the itchiness of medical tape on his forearm.

A couple things came up. The smell of Foggy’s awful aftershave, not fresh but old, like it had been a while, and some of it was washed off in the sink. Matt’s own fingers fiddling with the cotton gown, which was awful, but at least he was lying on silk sheets. His feet were cold, but he didn’t know how to address that.

His side was sore. It ached a little, like something prickly gently brushing up against him, threatening deeper wounds about but never committing. It was bandaged. The bandage itched but Foggy stopped him from touching it again and Matt realized this was _again_ and that he might not be remembering things.

“Yeah, I know,” Foggy said. “I told her no more Demerol. She said you might change your mind when it wears off. Which should be – “ The clink of a new watch, a more expensive one, not fake gold – “ – soon.”

Matt nodded. He had no idea why he was nodding. He retreated from touch and felt his chest from the inside, following his breath, and he felt the familiar sensation of stitches holding his flesh where it didn’t want to be. They made him feel like someone had tied up rubber bands around his skin, but from the inside out.

“Gross, Matt.”

Oh. He must have said some of that. He should really be keeping better track of what he was doing. He shut his mouth and stretched his senses out, and got further this time. Hospital. Yes. But the room was very large and remarkably empty, and the floor was quieter than a normal hospital had any business being. In all the time it took him to do this, the nurse came over and checked the machines, and took his blood pressure, and said a few things to him that he didn’t quite get but still managed to respond to.

“Even your nurses are hot,” Foggy said, and Matt realized she must have left. “I just get cranky old ones. But I bet you already knew that.”

“I can’t focus,” he admitted.

Foggy’s voice was far softer and more sympathetic when he answered, “Yeah, but you can say that, which is better than we were half an hour ago.”

He didn’t remember that. He didn’t remember talking to Foggy, or when Foggy had come. “Why are you here?”

“Because you were shot,” Foggy said. “And I’m still your medical proxy. And here I thought you were changing it to Fisk.”

“Shuddup,” Matt said, embarrassed that his speech was so slurred. “Why – I was shot?”

“Yes. At the gallery. And then you broke the guy’s arm. Like, it almost came right off. Or that’s what the EMT said. He sounded impressed,” Foggy explained. “You know what’s not cool? Getting a call from Wilson Fisk on my cell phone. I never realized how weird his voice is.”

“Sorry.”

“I want to say that you go out looking for danger, but it sounds like you didn’t this time.”

Matt shook his head as an affirmation. “So Fisk just called you?”

“Yeah. Because you were super shot and lost a ton of blood,” Foggy said. “I didn’t see him in person, but there were a bunch of guys around you when I got here. His guys. That’s why you’re on the VIP floor. And you must have told him something, because he sent you sheets.”

“Didn’t,” he said. He knew Fisk was just observant. “Vanessa?”

“She’s fine. Got a call from her this morning – also weird. She sounded really concerned, said it would be better if I was here. It would be easier on you.”

“The shooter.”

“Hoffman’s brother. He blames everything on Fisk but he’s too difficult to get to. The police have him. Hopefully he’s not in the same hospital, but after you nearly took a limb off, he definitely _is_ in the hospital.”

That made sense. “How long have I been out?”

“About fourteen hours.” And Foggy smelled it. “You lost like, half your blood, Matt.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“I will choose to believe that. That’s how nice a guy I am.” Foggy checked his phone. “Karen wants to see you. Not right away, obviously. But she does. What should I tell her?”

So Foggy still knew things were touchy with Karen. Matt didn’t have to wonder how he guessed that. “It’s fine.”

“She was really worried about you. We both were.” Foggy certainly wasn’t lying about that. He sounded tired. Matt suspected he’d been by his side the whole fourteen hours. “I know you don’t like hospitals, but do us a favor and follow the doctor’s orders, all right? You’re not signing out without a second party’s permission.”

“Okay.” He wanted Foggy to rest. His concern was painful to hear. “You can go. I’m okay.”

“Ha ha. Good one, Murdock,” Foggy said, and stayed through the doctor’s visit and dinner. The bullet had torn a lot of muscle and they’d had to pull it out of bone via surgery, but he would heal. If he followed a proper physical therapy regime, he would be good as new. Foggy paced and really held back making any snarky comments until the doctor was gone and Matt had eaten his applesauce. By then, the pain was the only thing keeping Matt awake, but despite the nurse’s correct guess about that, he refused any further narcotics and barely agreed to Advil. Foggy left him with the promise to stop by again in the morning on his way to work and drop off an iPad.

Sleep eventually overwhelmed him. Exhaustion had a lot to do with that. The nurse came every four hours to check his vitals and take his blood pressure, so he happened to be up when Foggy came by. Matt was a little cranky from dealing with the pain on his side, and perhaps could have been a bit more polite, but Foggy took him as he was, and said he would be back after work.

Other than trying, with the nurse’s help, to walk to the door and back, Matt more or less did nothing in the morning, and Vanessa came by at lunch. She ran her hands though his hair and he thought she still smelled of blood, but that was probably just his IV. He knew that she’d recently scrubbed her hands with disinfectant, that her heart (and posture) had sunk upon seeing him, and that her nails needed redoing. But otherwise she seemed to be in good health.

“How are you?” were the first words spoken between them, and by Matt.

“You’re too good for this world, Matthew,” Vanessa said, with a more subdued version of her usual charm. “Wilson sends his regards. He still thinks he’ll startle you.”

“He didn’t destroy the whole apartment, did he? When he heard? I hope you still have some art left.”

Vanessa laughed. “Two of my gallery pieces are sufficiently bloodied to be collector’s items. I won’t advertise them that way, but certainly, some ghoulish person will ask. Like that steakhouse that people go to because there was a mob hit there decades ago.”

“It’s Spark’s.” Landman and Zack would sometimes take people there. But not their interns, of course. Steaks were $75. “You know your local history.”

“I know where men take women to impress them,” she said. “Though you have really outdone yourself this time.”

He was too tired for flirting. “That guy – don’t let Fisk kill him.”

Vanessa had no pretensions about why he was asking. “I suspect he understands your stance on the issue. And he is not exactly a master assassin.”

Matt grumbled but said nothing. Vanessa added, “He was aiming for me, Matthew.”

“Trust me, I know.” That came off a little harshly than he intended and he flinched. “You knew what you were getting into with Fisk. He’s dangerous.”

“And you’re not?” She caught him as he tried to sit up properly, a painful operation all around. He hated talking to people while lying down. “Granted I didn’t expect it to be _this_ often, but we had you.”

“I’m not going to tell you to leave him to protect yourself,” he said, still grappling with the handrail, but he couldn’t quite get his legs over the side of the bed like he wanted to. “But only because I know you’re not going to listen to me.”

“If I told you to stop taking risks with yourself, would you do it?” Her hand trailed down his side, narrowly avoiding the actual wound.

She deserved the truth, so he gave it to her. “No.”

“We all have to live with our choices.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Get some rest. If Wilson sees me worrying any more about you, you’ll have yourself to look for.”

Matt didn’t doubt it.

***************************

Fisk came by the next day. Matt heard him in the elevator. That large form, flanked by two bulky guys, could only be one person. He always smelled clean and expensive. He brought flowers; his bodyguard set them down to Matt’s side. Fisk seemed unsure of his own skin in the hospital setting, or maybe it was just the overall oddness of the situation.

“I have a ... different sort of proposal for you,” Fisk said. “One that you might – like better.”

“It’s not a bodyguarding job, is it?”

“No. Though you do seem to excel in that area,” Fisk admitted. “What you did for us – we can never repay you for that. So I thought that your actions at the gallery might ... settle our accounts.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I can’t promise anything going forward, if we were unfortunate to run into each other under ... awkward circumstances,” Fisk said. “But that wouldn’t extend into the past. Or to your associates.”

“Even Karen.”

“She’s a reporter. I don’t decide what she writes. Neither do you.” But Fisk relented quickly. “But I can take it into consideration.”

The good thing to do was think on it, but there was nothing really to think on. “Offer accepted.”

He stuck his hand out and they shook on it. It was probably better that they didn’t continue to live together, because they might kill each other. No, they would definitely kill each other.

“For what it’s worth, I know I owe you a lot,” Matt said.

Fisk shifted awkwardly. “Not everything is seen in terms of payment. But do let us take you out to dinner sometime.”

***************************

“Dinner? Are you serious?” Foggy said as he pushed the wheelchair. Matt was a lawyer, so he knew better to fight hospital regulations. “Are you dating Vanessa? Wait, are you dating _them?_ ”

“No, Foggy. Definitely not.”

“Aren’t you gonna run into problems with Dare – “

“ _I’m not dating them_. Don’t make this any weirder than it already is.”

“I’d say that that’s not possible, but you’re always proving me wrong.” He stopped at the hospital entrance, where Karen was waiting for them with a car of all things. Since when had she owned a car? In _Manhattan?_ Where did she park it?

“There’s steps – easy, easy.” Foggy helped Matt up and let him lean on him. Standing up and sitting down were difficult transitions, and Matt would be in physical therapy for six months to get all of his strength and range of movement back. “Why would there even be steps in front of a hospital? We should sue them.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be an ambulance-chaser,” Matt said. “Hey, Karen.”

“Hey yourself.” She was smiling. Probably. “You’re looking better.”

“Thanks.” But he was so tired, and looking forward to a night in a place that smelled normal for Hell’s Kitchen, and had slightly fewer dying people in the nearby vicinity. He almost fell asleep in the car, but it was just too uncomfortable with his seatbelt on, and then on to Foggy’s new apartment, which had an elevator.

His few things from Fisk’s apartment were already there, delivered the day before. His departure was an unspoken agreement, though Vanessa had made it clear she would miss him in the braille get well card (it was more of a packet of sheets) that was sent up to him.

“So, this isn’t a bomb, right?” Foggy pointed to the familiar wooden slab leading against the wall.

He reached out to touch it, feeling the now-familiar grooves of the polished Bhutanese wood. “It’s art.”

“So we have art from Wilson Fisk on our wall now,” Foggy said, and Matt’s heart jumped at the word ‘we.’ Foggy had made it clear that Matt would not be apartment searching until he was already considerably more mobile than he was now. They hadn’t shared a space since college; Matt was looking forward to it.

“I think it looks nice,” Karen pitched in. “Is it expensive?”

Matt shrugged. “Technically it’s from Vanessa.” But if he had to guess, she had made a comment to Fisk about sending it along and Fisk had approved. Because they made choices together, those two. “I can put it in storage if you don’t like it, Foggy.”

“No, it’s cool. Very, uh, natural? Because it’s made out of wood.” He jabbed Matt on the arm. “It’s yours, man. You keep it.”

Matt did have very little to his name right now. Anything worth something to him was in storage with Melvin, including the trunk with his dad’s stuff and his real armor. He didn’t think much about the things he’d left behind because he’d never been one to collect _stuff_ , due to the nature of being an orphan who seemed to be perpetually moving from one thing to the next. But the wood was solid and heavy and therefore made its presence known. Fisk’s apartment had never felt like home, but the sculpture did.

“Thank you.”

***************************

The problem came into focus when Fisk found himself making three omelets instead of two. It was then that he noticed the apartment was quieter, emptier, less animated, but also less dark as if a threat had been removed.

 _The center cannot hold_ was the understanding in the Fisk household. Matthew Murdock’s stay could only ever have been temporary. He wasn’t their child, he wasn’t really the third person in their marriage, but he wasn’t an interloper, either. Their personalities were more match than clash, though the clashes were rather significant, if Fisk’s dining room had anything to say about it. In the end, they were two men too violent to share a neighborhood together, much less a room, for a long period of time.

Even Vanessa couldn’t fix that. “Do you miss him?” she asked over dinner, but neither of them needed her to answer the question herself.

“Not all the time,” he said, which was the real answer. She liked it when he was honest, when he didn’t obscure anything like he did with everyone else. He certainly didn’t miss carefully choosing his words so he never said a like around the lawyer Murdock. “But some of it.”

“Enough of it.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I have a feeling we’ll see him again soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and as always, if you enjoyed it, leave a comment! Much appreciated.


End file.
